Yom Hashoah
April 11th, 2010 by Suzanne | Filed under Jewishness.My grandfather was born in Warsaw on October 26, 1911, the youngest of seven and the only boy. His name was Motel (pronounced mut-TEL) Rajsman. He had green eyes and thick black hair, although by the time I knew him, only silver wisps remained, clinging stubbornly to the sides of his pale head.
His father died when he was a young man, so my grandfather dropped out of school to help operate the family’s butcher shop. All of his sisters were married with children. My bubbe once told me that the three oldest sisters lived in Germany and owned a chocolate factory. From papers that Bubbe prepared requesting reparations from Germany, I learned that the middle sisters were named Tema and Estera. The youngest sister, Doba, was my grandfather’s favorite. My younger sister, Dana, was named in her honor.
On September 1, 1939, Hitler launched his blitzkrieg – lightening war – through Poland. The Polish government conscripted all men of fighting age. Sixteen days later, the Russians stormed in from the east. Doba’s husband was sent to the eastern front. My grandfather fled.
Once, when I was in elementary school, I asked my grandfather what happened to his family. His clear green eyes clouded over and he was quiet for long enough to scare me. Finally, he shook his head, peered down at me, and yelled for my bubbe to bring him a pear. She scurried to give him one, then walked back to the living room where she had been crocheting an afghan. Grandpa held the light green fruit up.
“See this pear?”
I nodded.
“It’s shaped like your bubbe’s tuchus!” he said. We laughed and she turned to shake her finger at the naughty joke. I didn’t ask him about his family again.
Whenever I imagine my grandfather’s last interaction with his family, a mostly black and white film with splashes of color unreels in my head. I see three dark-haired women assembled at a large dining table. Their husbands are at work or in the army, their children are at school, and their mother, Pesha, is upstairs resting. Then lean into the center of the empty table, hashing out a plan. They need to save their only brother. When my grandfather returns from their butcher shop, six sets of green eyes look up at him.
“What?” he asks.
“It has been decided,” Estera says. “You leave tonight for Russia.” Although Russia is known for anti-Semitic violence, and is at war with Poland, it is the closet country not occupied by the Nazis. He might be able to slip through the borders undetected.
“No!” The bag containing provisions he has brought from the market slips out of his arms. Vegetables spill on the polished wood floor, a mess of colors.
The women shake their heads. (I costume them in wigs, as Orthodox Jewish custom dictates for married women.) Doba speaks. “We are women with children, and our mother is frail. The Nazis won’t bother us. I can’t bear to lose you.” Her voice is quiet, like my sister’s. She stares in her lap at her small folded hands. He agrees to leave.
The sisters pack a satchel of food and clothes. They collect money from the deep pockets in their simple dresses and count it at the table. They shuttle him toward the door. Doba presses the bills into Grandpa’s hand, and Tema passes him the bag. They kiss him good-bye. As he walks down the street, he turns back one last time to look at them. Doba calls out, “L’shanah haba’ah birushalayim – next year in Jerusalem.”
He never sees them again.
Tags: Jewishness, tragedy
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that’s beautiful and tragic.
Thanks Mar. It is a tiny except from my thesis, so I’m particularly glad that you found it moving.
Tears are rolling down my face. I’m so glad we found you for many reason, but among them is your rich life experience. I’m posting this link.
Wow. That was beautifully told. I have tears in my eyes. How lucky your family is to have their story told. Thank you for sharing.
That was beuatifully written and now I’m crying. Great excerpt. Keep up the work.
These stories didn’t affect me nearly as much until I lost my sister. Now those words “He never sees them again” just make me cry. That they died under such horrible circumstances makes it so much worse.
I also think of the bravery of all kinds of immigrants who left their homes and traveled the world seeking a new life, all the time knowing they would probably never see their families again. It is really stunning.
I weep for your family and mine.. And everyone in between.
Thank you for passing that story along. I will share it with my 10 year old.
[...] nominated my post Yom Hashoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day) for BlogHer’s Voices of the Year contest, crossed my fingers, and [...]
Beautiful and tragic and heartbreaking, all at once, and very deserving of recognition.
My heart breaks imagining your grandfather with the pear. That one image is more than I ever got out of my grandmother about her family. Everything I know, and it isn’t much, is from my grandfather, they knew each other from when he dated her older sister before the war, in another lifetime.
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Thank you Robin. I’m sorry that you were in the same situation. It’s so hard not to know, but I also understand why people couldn’t talk about it.
Found you through the BlogHer nominations. What a beautiful, haunting post.
Unfortunately, your grandfather’s story is one I know too well. My husband’s grandfather was on the lam from the Polish army. He swept back through his hometown, married his sweetheart, and they left for Russia the next day. They begged their families to come with them, but nobody understood the urgency.
They were each the only survivors from their respective families. She is still with us, at 92.
My son is named for my mother’s first cousin, Bronia Jager, who was executed and thrown into a mass grave. (Her parents and three sisters all met the same fate, though not that day.) There is an empty spot in the German records of the massacre where Bronia’s “occupation” was to have been recorded. She was 12.
Thank you for sharing your story.
Thanks, Jennifer, for your kind words on my story and also for sharing yours. I have goosebumps from it. What town were your grandparents from?
My family was from a Galician town called “Bolechow.” It’s now in Ukraine. And if you really want to get goose bumps, read the whole story:
http://www.amazon.com/Lost-Search-Six-Million/dp/0060542993/ref=ed_oe_p
My husband’s family is from a Polish town called Wohyn. Interestingly, his grandparents stayed in Poland for 16 years AFTER the war. Now those are some interesting stories as well…
Maybe this wasn’t clear, but the Lost IS my family’s story — Daniel is my brother. I actually went back to Bolechow with him — it’s all in the book, so there’s really nothing left for me to say.
Sorry you found it frustrating.
There is a Polish graduate student working on some sort of project about Jews in postwar Poland for a new museum. He interviewed my husband’s grandmother for hours — even came to the U.S. just to meet her and was astonished to find such a trove of information about that time period. (She can still tell you what color sweater she was wearing on a certain day in 1947, I swear.) Not sure what the upshot will be, but I’ll let you know.
Best,
JM
Damn! You are the Jennifer from the trip, huh? I think it was an amazing journey. The National Book Award is obviously a testament to the craft and the story. Personally, I just wish there was less Biblical side notes, as what I loved was the story, but I already said that. (It was like there were two books smooshed together, and one captivated me and the other required me to go to rabbinical school. Anyway…) Hopefully you now do not think I am a complete asshole.
I saw the site for the new museum in Warsaw. I’m both hopeful and nervous about it. There was a Jewish museum in Krakow that I went to last month and I felt uncomfortable in it, like I was visiting an exhibit on dinosaurs or some other extinct entity. I don’t know.
Are you coming to the BlogHer conference?
[...] Warsaw capitulated to the Nazis. At the time, over 350,000 Jews called that city home, including my grandfather and his family. It was the largest, most vibrant Jewish community in Europe. God did not write many names in the [...]