The Ones Who Remember: Second-Generation Voices of the Holocaust

Dedication

Myra Fox

August 12, 1955–April 26, 2018

Myra Fox, Ann Arbor, Michigan, 2018

Myra joined our Ann Arbor Temple Beth Emeth Generations After community in its first year. She had the unrivaled ability to plumb the emotional depths of our group’s difficult legacy, bringing us her enormous heart and creative gifts.

Myra was central to our endeavors as a writer, an editor, and a beloved friend. Her perspectives on her family, Jewish identity, and second-generation Holocaust experience had a profound effect on us, and are reflected throughout this anthology.

Myra died after a valiant battle with cancer, in the midst of our writing this book. It is with great love that we dedicate our book to her.

Contents

Foreword

Irene Hasenberg Butter

Introduction

Rita Benn, Julie Goldstein Ellis, Joy Wolfe Ensor, and Ruth Wade

1: Screams in the Night

Ruth Taubman, daughter of Lola Goldstein/Mueller Taubman

2: The Attic Full of Photographs

Julie Goldstein Ellis, daughter of Magda Blaufeld Goldstein and Louis Goldstein, cousin of Lola Goldstein/Mueller Taubman

3: Drinking from a Half-Full Broken Glass

Avishay Hayut, son of Aliza and Aharon Chajut

4: I Don’t Remember

Nancy Szabo, daughter of Daniel Szabo

5: Shades of Chanel No. 5

Rita Benn, daughter of Alice and Phillipe Benn

6: Generation to Generation

Sassa Åkervall, daughter of Magda Wilensky (née Kahan)

7: Memorize This Address

Ava Adler, daughter of Minna (Mindl) Adler

8: Lessons from My Parents

Natalie Iglewicz, daughter of Henry and Franka Iglewicz

9: Cutting Corners

Phil Barr, son of Harold (Chaim) Rayberg

10: Always an Outsider

Cilla Tomas, daughter of Ruzena and Jakob Tomashpolski

11: Chesed

Simone Yehuda, daughter of Walter Juda

12: If Only

Eszter Gombosi, daughter of Julianna (Juci) and István (Pista) Gárdos

13: Please Remember

Myra Fox, daughter of Henry Fox and Rachel Najman Fox

14: Osmosis

Fran Lewy Berg, daughter of Alfred and Irene Lewy

15: Not Made of Glass

Ruth Wade, daughter of Sidney Sevek Finkel

16: One Day the World Will Be the World Again

Joy Wolfe Ensor, daughter of Henia Karmel and Leon Wolfe

Contributors

Acknowledgments

Foreword

Irene Hasenberg Butter

In 2004, I attended the first Temple Beth Emeth Holocaust Remembrance Day service, written and led by Generations After. The stories that these children of survivors shared about their parents’ experiences greatly moved me. As a Holocaust survivor who has spent years educating others and working toward peace and tolerance, I recognized the importance of their work.

When I came to the United States in 1945, the American relatives who took me in urged me to forget everything that had happened to my family—and to me—in the Holocaust. I was fifteen years old and they were adults, so I listened to them. For forty years I was quiet. I was not truly free until I started to tell what happened to me as a child.

The need to address how the Holocaust impacted me and the world drove me to work toward the establishment of the Raoul Wallenberg Award at the University of Michigan, where I was a professor in the School of Public Health. Raoul Wallenberg, while serving as a Swedish diplomat in Hungary between July and December 1944, saved tens of thousands of Jews from the gas chamber by issuing them protective passports and sheltering them in buildings designated as Swedish territory. With the mission to increase awareness of Wallenberg’s heroic life-saving efforts in the Holocaust, each year the Raoul Wallenberg Award continues to recognize and bring to our community humanitarians and scholars working to combat the marginalization of peoples, to promote peace and reconciliation. Some of the past honorees include the Dalai Lama, Elie Wiesel, and Desmond Tutu.

Once retired, I focused on visiting local schools to talk about how I survived during the war. The students were fascinated with my story. I saw their worlds open up in the way my experience resonated for them. Students confided to me that, after hearing my story and seeing how I was able to lead a successful life, they now felt they could overcome trauma in their own lives.

In 2011, I joined the Generations After group in participating in services for our temple community. I described how my idyllic early childhood was quickly followed by the terror and hell of concentration camps, the tragic death of my father, and my separation from my mother and brother when I was sent to a displaced persons camp in North Africa. I contributed perspectives and stories about returning to Germany many years later, where I spoke to high school students, surprisingly in my native German tongue. I also spoke of visiting the Stumbling Stones in front of the home of my grandparents in Berlin. These plaques are installed on the sidewalks in front of Holocaust victims’ last known place of residence. Since most Holocaust victims do not have a grave, Stumbling Stones return names and places to victims who might otherwise have been forgotten. They serve as concrete individual memorials. I am very grateful to Gunter Demnig, the artist who created the Stolpersteine project, for the work he is undertaking to preserve the history of the Jewish people who were murdered. These have special importance to me, as now my children and grandchildren have an actual place in Germany where they can connect with their ancestors.

As some of the Generations After members began discussing the creation of an anthology based on our services, I encouraged them to focus on their own voices and their own second-generation experiences. I was fascinated by how well they had brought their parents’ stories to life, but was even more engaged when they shared how these experiences impacted them. Each of them had a unique perspective on the personal effects of this singular tragedy. Each had a vital story to tell. All of them were committed to preserving their stories and insights for future generations. I asked my two children, Noah and Ella, to share a little bit about their own experiences growing up with a mother who had survived the Holocaust. As a small preview of what you will find in this book, here is what they wrote.

Noah’s reflection:

I always knew that my mom was a Holocaust survivor. I do not remember not knowing this fact. It was not as if one day my mom sat down with me and explained what had happened to her family when she was an early teen, when they were arrested, taken away from their Amsterdam home, and sent to Westerbork concentration camp, later to be deported to Bergen-Belsen concentration camp.

One of my earliest memories of thinking about the Holocaust was walking with my mom in downtown Ann Arbor. I can still remember a flash of what was happening: we were walking down the street, with pedestrians and cars flowing by us, and I believe we had just come out of a shop. I remember thinking that there was something not quite right about me, some defect that I had, and that perhaps it was because my mom got roughed up in the war. In other words, I was attributing something that I imagined happened to Mom, physically in the concentration camp, to my own, tainted condition.

Ella’s reflection:

From a very young age I knew that there was a story that needed to be told. One weekday night when I was about seven years old, in the second grade, I sat down with my mother on my bed and insisted that she tell me the whole story. Intuitively I had the sense that it was my duty and that I was given this responsibility. I think that hearing my mother’s story transformed my life. Although I couldn’t possibly understand, as such a young child, what it meant to be prisoners of Bergen-Belsen, to starve, and to be covered with lice, I listened attentively and made my mother’s experience part of my personal journey. There were always more questions to be asked, and when I was in junior high school and had to choose a topic for my speech, I knew it would be the persecution of the Jews during World War II. As part of my presentation, I asked my mother to describe life in the concentration camps. I believe this was the first time she told her story in front of a group of teenagers.

When I was in my first year of law school at Tel Aviv University, I came upon an announcement about the first Holocaust survivors’ gathering, to be held in Israel. It was obvious that my mother and I should be there together. We were on the bus to Kibbutz Netzer Sereni, and I fell asleep. When I woke up, there were children on the bus handing out flowers. This brought tears to my mother’s eyes. Who would have imagined, in the midst of the Holocaust, that there would one day be children greeting survivors laden with flowers?

The Holocaust has always been for me a sign of the evil we are capable of. When I say we, I mean that it’s not merely the Germans who were capable of such atrocities. We the human race are all responsible and must find ways to fight our dark side. I felt the urge to study law and to fight for human rights and justice. My whole life I have felt that it is our responsibility and duty to stand up against injustice, to see the pain our neighbors are feeling and to bear that with them. Having endured my own share of crises and difficulties, I know what suffering is like. Whenever we bear a family history of the Holocaust or any other form of persecution, it shapes us into the humans we are. I look at my mother and see how such suffering can be transformed into love and care for others. Becoming a compassionate human being is what I would say growing up with the Holocaust is all about.

Remembrance is what shapes our lives and teaches us. And legacy has to be passed on to our children. This important book is compelling evidence that the legacy is being passed on. My children and the children in the Generations After community are our future, carrying our stories forward. It is both natural and essential that they lend their own inheritances to the tragedy of the Holocaust.

Every individual can make a difference, and it is our human duty to speak out against oppression and persecution wherever it exists. As you listen to the voices of the Generations After community, you will see how each one approaches their parents’ history, seeking connection and a path toward restoring faith in humanity. In reading their stories, you will have the opportunity to deeply experience the notion that all people are our kin. And isn’t that what we all are aiming for?

Introduction

Rita Benn, Julie Goldstein Ellis, Joy Wolfe Ensor, and Ruth Wade

It was a falling into. With a combination of sweetness and pluck, Martha Solent, the founding member of our Generations After group, suggested to our rabbi that we could enrich the liturgy for Holocaust Remembrance Day by inviting our own congregants to share their lived experiences of the Shoah and its aftermath. With his support, she approached friends and new acquaintances and invited them to join in this new group undertaking. Those who were hesitant were invited for coffee. A pair of cousins decided to join the group together. We all wanted to honor our parents, to give voice to the history many of them never could tell, and to find our own voices.

When we began meeting in 2004, we experienced a shock of familiarity with each other beyond the coincidence of having settled in the same Michigan college town and the same Reform Jewish congregation. We had in common an implicit understanding of what it was like growing up with Holocaust survivor parents: to be the namesakes of the lost souls who’d perished; to confront our parents’ muteness, and sometimes anger, when we asked questions about their past; to bear the challenge of remembering when there was so much we didn’t know. With one another, we didn’t have to engage in emotional translation. Our stories became each other’s stories.

Some of us had never learned more than fragments about our parents’ past, while for others, there was more open and intentional sharing. Either way, our parents’ suffering seeped into our souls. We absorbed their sorrow and shame, spoken or unspoken; their anxieties and their courage; and, most importantly, their lessons of endurance and resilience.

To plan our services, we gathered in each other’s homes around abundant food, hugs, laughter, and sometimes tears. Our conversations moved organically from sharing what was happening in our own lives to telling our parents’ stories to identifying a connecting theme that gave the annual memorial observances their own unique emphases, such as suffering, resistance, forgiveness, and grace. We then wove together our individual recollections with prayer and music. These services helped many members of our congregation move from trying to grasp the incomprehensible number of six million Jews murdered in the Holocaust, to hearing the clear singular voice of the person standing in front of them bearing witness to its meaning for an individual family. Our stories became all of our stories.

After ten years of confiding in each other within this community space, we decided to create an anthology that would preserve our parents’ experiences for future generations of our families and beyond. In the process, we began to talk more about our own experiences of living in the shadow of the Holocaust while trying to lead normal lives. In one Generations After gathering, someone asked, Who among us had parents who suffered from bouts of major depression? Every hand went up. We realized that while we had been unflinching in describing the particulars of our parents’ losses, we had kept private the impact of their trauma on themselves and on us. As we began to share this with each other, we asked ourselves, could we delve more deeply? Yes, we all could. And we did.

What did we learn? Our parents rebuilt their lives and raised a generation of successful children. Even so, there were ripple effects from growing up with this tragic family history. It was difficult to permit ourselves to disclose this impact—it felt self-indulgent and disloyal. After all that our parents had endured, how dare we portray them as in any way flawed? How could we even remotely think that we had problems worthy of mentioning? Our parents had stood in the freezing cold in their striped pajamas for hours on end, watching their friends and families die. How could our concerns and laments compare?

Still, we felt compelled to openly acknowledge that the suffering of our parents had significant effects on our lives as children and adults. For many of us it was a struggle to write more about ourselves, to say out loud what we had kept buried inside for so many years. We often had to dig through multiple layers of repression to find and express our true feelings. Over time, through this intense reflection, we deepened our understanding of ourselves and further recognized the impact of intergenerational trauma on how we moved through the world and raised our own children. In the end, writing these very personal narratives brought about unexpected healing.

The result is this book, a very different book than the one we first set out to write. Our parents, through grace, cleverness, and stubborn determination, managed to survive unimaginable horrors. These essays offer accounts of our families’ courage and post-traumatic growth, as well as of our own second-generation struggles and reckonings. We hope that it will inspire healing for others facing adversity in their own lives.

Elie Wiesel, Holocaust survivor and Nobel laureate, said, Whoever listens to a witness, becomes a witness.1 Listening to each other’s family histories has felt like a sacred act. We feel blessed to have a community interested in truly hearing each other, and grateful for the opportunity to carry on our parents’ legacy while creating our own.

In encountering these recollections, you too are bearing witness. We hope that our stories will become your stories, and that the lessons of the Holocaust—and its continuing and expanding impact—will never be forgotten.

1

Screams in the Night

Ruth Taubman, daughter of Lola Goldstein/Mueller Taubman

Lola arriving in America, Port of New York, 1949

For as long as I can remember, my mother’s screams of terror in the night were an ordinary occurrence. My siblings and I didn’t ask questions. Being awakened several times a week or more was our family reality. We simply went back to sleep and didn’t discuss it the next day. We certainly didn’t mention my mother’s night terrors to anyone outside of our family.

That’s probably why I forgot to forewarn my friend Jesse when he came to our house for a visit one summer when I was sixteen. I’d been away at Interlochen, a fine arts camp, where Jesse and I had met the year before. He came to visit me at the end of camp, and then we made the trip together back to my family’s home in Birmingham, Michigan. Jesse was going to stay with us for a few days.

In the middle of our first night at the house, my mother’s shrieks pierced the dark. As I swam to consciousness, it clicked that Jesse would not know what was happening. I ran to his room. There, I found him standing up out of bed, shaking in utter fear of what horrible unknown event might be occurring.

I tried to tell him it was nothing and he should go back to sleep. That phrase, it’s nothing, sums up the disconnect between him, who could not imagine the origins of my mother’s terror, and me—the child of a Holocaust survivor, familiar with its source.

• • •

Only recently have I discovered that my fellow members of the club known as Generations After have had uncannily similar experiences. My second-generation contemporaries and I have a shared sensibility. It took a long time for me to recognize the unbridgeable chasm between those who are aware of the Holocaust from some impersonal context—whether as scholars of history, or middle school readers of Anne Frank—and those who have been the direct witnesses to, and participants in, the aftermath of the Holocaust. No amount of reading and research, or seeing Schindler’s List at the local multiplex, will parallel our experiences. We have an intrinsic knowing that cannot be shared or passed along; we are the link to our parents’ ongoing, lifelong trauma. Even for our own descendants, the trauma eventually converts into what feels like little more than anecdotal stories. No teeth. No claws. No gut-wrenching screams out of nowhere, in the dead of night.

• • •

In the same way I tried (albeit unsuccessfully) to reassure my friend on that night long ago that everything was fine, I’m often assured by an owner with a dog lunging from a leash—or jumping on me as I come through the door to their home—that the animal is friendly. Whether it’s true or not, I’m always predisposed to be fearful, even if just walking near an approaching dog on a stroll. It’s a vestige of my mother being terrorized by the Nazis’ savage dogs, a direct physical transfer of her disturbance. I can still feel her grip tightening on my hand when she would see any dog—even from a block away—whether the dog was loudly barking in warning or quietly wagging its tail. That inadvertent communication of behavior has been impossible for me to unlearn. Whether I feign indifference or just slightly recoil, my innate, primal sense of danger is activated by any animal I encounter. However benign the situation, this deeply ingrained perpetuation of fear is a reflex; a reaction I never question or address.

• • •

By my mother’s last decade, she had already publicly shared her Holocaust experiences, speaking dozens of times in schools and in many interviews. Beyond this, though, she was driven by a desire not to be defined solely by that wretched chapter of her life. She wanted to write a memoir, in her own voice, and she wanted it to be about her entire life.

And so, in her late eighties, in matter-of-fact sessions with a historian, my mother described her idyllic childhood in Svalava, a small town in the Carpathian Mountains that was originally part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire but was then part of Czechoslovakia. She diagrammed the floor plan of her house. She told of her jealousy of her three younger brothers’ freedom to play, while she, as the oldest child—and only girl—of the family had a litany of seemingly unending domestic responsibilities.

My mother made sure I learned to do things. I was the only girl, so besides going to school, my mother taught me how to sew, how to knit, how to crochet, and how to mend. I had to prepare a dowry, embroidered sheets and pillowcases and tablecloths. My mother also taught me how to garden . . . how to can fruits and vegetables. We couldn’t go to the river to swim until we had done our jobs with the canning. We lived off that in the winter.1

During a frank discussion when I was a young teen, my mother surprised me by sharing that at my age, she dreaded becoming a woman in her community because she pictured her destiny as one of toil and drudgery. Her own mother worked constantly from dawn to night. I remember thinking how contemporary it seemed that she had such a nascent feminist attitude about her future.

In writing her memoir, she recalled her modern orthodox parents’ deep emphasis on education. They sent her to the preeminent private Jewish high school in Europe, a co-ed Hebrew gymnasium in the larger nearby city of Munkács, highly unusual for girls at that time. She went on to describe the gradual curbing of her family’s freedoms as Hitler rose to power. Eventually her entire town’s Jewish population was rounded up and deported to two ghettos housed in former brick factories in Munkács.

After four weeks in the ghetto, they were abruptly gathered in groups and transported on a harrowing three-day rail journey by cattle car. They were crushed together, the conditions horrible; one woman gave birth to a child, one woman went berserk, people screamed. My mother was wedged between her mother and her father. The poignant moment that stood out from that horrendous boxcar was her father turning to her and saying, No matter what they do to you—they can take everything away from you—but the little education you’ve got, they can’t take away.

Their destination was Auschwitz. Upon their arrival, she recounted waiting in line as her family was selected by the infamous Josef Mengele for the gas chambers, while she was chosen to work—and to endure the unspeakable horrors that lay beyond the roaring chimneys that lit up the night, filling her nostrils with the stench of death.

With the historian as her interlocutor, my mother related the extremes of grit that were required to survive. Laying bare her fierce determination to live, she detailed many razor’s-edge escapes from death. She also recounted her eventual liberation at the end of World War II, followed by years in displaced persons (DP) camps.

Two generations of uncles, aunts, and cousins were American citizens, willing to sponsor her immigration to the United States. But the postwar intricacies of redrawn European borders, combined with constantly changing U.S. policy for the priority quota of refugees, left my mother unable to get a visa to come to America. She had unwittingly lost her eligibility for priority status for papers because she had briefly left Germany for Czechoslovakia; merely having crossed the border to her country of origin meant she was considered as having a home. She desperately wanted to reunite with her closest surviving relatives who had all successfully emigrated. Her uncanny talent for speaking many languages led to her working as a translator for a sympathetic American Army officer in the DP camp, helping register applicants for visas. The nature of the work allowed the officer access to make false papers on my mother’s behalf, using the name of another survivor close to her own height and age who had never applied for a visa. Because this fellow survivor was illegally smuggled into what was then Palestine (now Israel), she effectively disappeared. My mother assumed her identity, acquired a visa, and finally arrived in New York as Leah Mueller on March 1, 1949.

Two years later, my mother moved to Detroit, where she met and fell in love with my father, Samuel Taubman. Together they built a home life that eventually included my sister, my brother, and me.

When I was about ten, I began to understand how family names were passed along, and asked my mother why her last name was Mueller while her entire immediate and extended family name was Goldstein. In simple terms, she began to reveal how she had acquired Leah’s identity. As an adult, I came to learn the full story, realizing the risks she took to finally be safely in the United States. Forty years after that first conversation, we discovered her actual age through a distant relative’s genealogy search. My mother had so fully incorporated the facts of her naturalization papers into her own life that she never even revealed her true birth date to my father.

Lola with her children (Richard, Ruth, and Alyssa) at Ruth’s first birthday, Southfield, Michigan, March, 1960

The complexities of living under a false identity had its own reach of quiet terror beyond the safe harbor of my mother’s home and young family. I got the first inkling of this as a small child during a pleasure day trip to Windsor, Canada, just a forty-five-minute drive from our house. For the border crossing, my mother placed her naturalization papers in their red leatherette tri-fold case on the front seat of the car, nervously gripping the steering wheel as we approached the entrance of the tunnel to Canada manned by the Border Patrol officers. She delivered choked replies in her lilting, Hungarian-accented English to the officers’ standard questions about where each of us were born. She was virtually undone by this brief and seemingly mundane excursion and was visibly drained every subsequent time she had to cross a border. Throughout her life, though fully a U.S. citizen by her marriage to my father, there was never a time when she did not fear her initial illegal status being found out by the authorities. The cloud of her own imagining of being sent back cast a pall from which she never fully escaped.

After a fifty-plus-year marriage, my mother survived the loss of her dear Sam. Soon after, she moved to Ann Arbor, where another whole chapter of her life began. She made dozens of friends in her retirement community. A few years after the move, an amalgamation of her interviews with the historian, together with photos, was self-published as her memoir, My Story, by Lola Taubman.

• • •

As my mother’s book project came to fruition, my job was to edit the galley proofs. One day during this period, I was boarding a small plane in a tiny town in the mountains of Montana. The time had come to work on the chapters of her memoir where she described some of her most horrific experiences in the death camps.

My flight departed during a winter storm, with the pilot warning us before takeoff that it was going to be a rough trip. This was a great understatement, considering the white-knuckle ride that followed. As the plane pitched, the wings torqued and rattled. People’s personal belongings began to fall from the overhead bins, which popped open in the tumult. I forged onward with my edits, gripping my red Sharpie as I persisted in correcting small grammatical errors and minor misspellings—a prosaic function, so clinical in comparison to the dreadful content on the page.

My presence on that turbulent plane was a story in itself. I was returning from the onerous task of being interviewed for my child’s admission to a therapeutic boarding school, far from the comforts of our own home. Yet even this, one of the most challenging moments in my life, paled in contrast to what my mother had survived. How could I indulge in self-pity, no matter how dire the circumstances felt to me? As I once said during a meeting of our Generations After group, my worst day was a pimple compared to what my mother had experienced. To be stoic in the face of adversity—and avoid wallowing—were my instinctive responses, thanks to my bittersweet inheritance.

A wise counselor once asked about an unrelated difficult situation, Where are you in all of this? In my own way, I have harnessed my mother’s ability to prevail, beyond all odds, to know on a deep level that I can’t be overwhelmed—and won’t be defeated. I have an unshakeable sense that I can prevail in any situation. After all, as my mother’s story proves, it is possible to overcome anything—and no amount of trouble can equal the monolith that is the Holocaust.

The inescapable shadow of