Bryent P. Wilkins Report 2015 Tracing the Untold Story of a Holocaust Survivor Introduction: I wish my grandmother had told her own story; I wish she had told my family about her past. But she didn t. She kept her past, and most of her emotions, a mystery. This summer, thanks to the Wilkins fellowship, I set out to Europe with my father and uncle to trace my grandmother s past: her life during the Holocaust. My goal was to write her memoir a Holocaust testimony mingled with the impressions of a granddaughter. My whole life, I had been told to Never Forget. Usually it applied to the Holocaust itself. Never Forget the Holocaust. But I was also told never to forget the people you loved. So I decided I wanted to write a book soon after my grandmother s passing. My grandfather, also a Holocaust survivor, had written a book about his experiences. I thought my grandmother deserved the same. She deserved to be remembered. So I began collecting evidence. I called up family members, and asked them what they remembered. Memories were sparse. My grandmother was even more secretive and closed off than I realized. None of her children remembered her ever talking about her experience during the war. I did find one invaluable source of information. My grandmother had recorded a 30minute interview, which we had on VHS, leaning against the upper-most corner of a dusty shelf. I watched the tape twice. She didn t say very much. Her answers to questions were a few words long. My dad said he had never seen the tape, even though it had been in our house for sixteen years. From the tape, I was able to get a list of places and dates. I knew where she was during the war. I supposed that would have to do. The week after, I was going to each of the cities my grandmother had lived in, and I was going to try to turn her short testimony into a story that my family could keep. I was afraid, because my grandmother and her story were already slipping from memory. It seemed like I was out to Never Forget something that was already mostly forgotten. Time was running out. My grandmother planned to take her story to the grave. And without this opportunity, I am sure that she would have succeeded. Warsaw: The first day of the trip, I learned that my grandmother s past was not the only secret in the family. I had invited my uncle and my father on the trip, since it was their mother, and I thought it would be meaningful for them to see where she had survived the war. I planned the whole thing. It included a lot of walking to and from museums and memorial sites. When we met my uncle, I could see that he was far too sick to walk anywhere. We had no idea. He had kept his poor health a secret from us. I started sensing a pattern a pattern of not saying what should be said.
The day after we arrived in Warsaw, I made arrangements to meet with a genealogy researcher. We arrived late. As a result, the genealogy researcher was already frustrated when we arrived. The meeting was not fruitful. The names in the databases conflicted with my grandmother s testimony on the tape. I was told she had five siblings, not three; I was told that she only spent a few months in a ghetto I thought she spent years in; I was told that her brother s name was not Bernie, but Hershel. I could barely say anything. I didn t even tell the researcher why I was in Poland. I think this upset her more. She couldn t understand why had come all this way, with wrong information, only to leave again in two weeks. What s the point? She asked. I had an answer: I wanted to write about my grandmother. I wanted to find my voice. I wanted to reconnect with my dad, uncle and my past. But I didn t say any of that. She was mad at me. And I was afraid to tell her that this trip was important. Pabianice: A taxi dropped us off in the suburb of Pabianice, my grandmother s birthplace. When the war started, Pabianice s Jewish quarter was turned into a ghetto. Bubbe lived in the ghetto for two years, sewing uniforms for the Nazi soldiers. But when we got there, there was nothing to commemorate that ghetto. We wandered through a park that commemorated the ancient Kings of Pabianice. We saw a memorial to soldiers. But there was no sign of the Jewish population, or World War II. I thought I would feel more connected to my grandmother on this trip. But after the meeting with the researcher, arriving at her birth town, turning back empty handed, I felt more lost than ever. I was beginning to wonder if I could ever find my grandmother again. Łódź: The ghetto memorial in Lodz is located at the train station. My grandmother would have arrived there right after her 14 th birthday, and stayed in the Lodz ghetto for two years before leaving, from the same train station, to go to Auschwitz Concentration Camp.
Inside the train station, they list all the names of people who came through the station. I looked through hundreds of sheets of paper. I didn t find my grandmother s name. This tragedy was simply too vast too many people were lost. ` At this point, I told Dad I wasn t sure if I could ever tell Bubbe s entire story. I could write what I knew about her, but that simply would never be everything that she was. But what I was seeing was that her habit of silence was reflected in her children. I pointed out that Bernie had kept his health a secret. Dad looked at me for a moment, and then said I was welcome to write about his story, if I wanted to. Your story? I wasn t a good kid. He explained. You ve never told me your story. I guess my uncle wasn t the only one who liked to keep the bad things buried. My grandmother, my uncle, my father the pattern was growing. Krakow: Krakow was home to many important memorial sites. We toured the museum of Oscar Schindler, who saved many from the concentration camps by employing them in his factor; we took pictures of old synagogues and ghetto walls; we walked solemnly through the infamous Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp, where my grandmother had narrowly escaped extermination, and where my great-grandmother was murdered.
One morning in Krakow, my father and I walked alone together. Krakow s historical center is surrounded by an oval ribbon of walking path. We made our way around Krakow s heart, the castles of old on our left, the corporations of today on our right. Before we got here, I didn t know you were writing a book, my dad told me. I m looking forward to reading it. I really didn t tell you? I asked. I started tracing through my memories. Had I really not told my dad what I planned to do after our trip here? You really didn t. Following another train of thought, I opened up my notebook, the one I always carried around with me. And I started flipping through the pages. I looked at the notes, and the dialogue I had written down. There were quotes from my dad and uncle. I had even written down things I thought my grandmother would have said. But, just as I suspected, I had not written down a single sentence of my own. There was that pattern again. Hamburg: My grandmother s concentration camp was located somewhere near Hamburg, Germany. It was somewhat of a miracle that I found the Hamburg Concentration Camp memorial. It was miles away from the main city, and next to a vast corn field. The golden branches waved at as when we arrived. But other than that, our presence, and the existence of this camp, seemed to go unnoticed. We wandered through the old barracks. They had turned it into a museum. The three of us were the only ones there. My dad was really hopeful. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is my mom s concentration camp. Maybe we will find a trace of her. A staff member caught sight of us. We must have struck him as some kind of anomaly, because he approached us. My dad explained that we were searching to find evidence of his mom, a Holocaust survivor. He explained that we hadn t been that successful. The staff member looked at us for a long moment, and then asked that we follow him upstairs. His desk was crowded with paper skyscrapers, and framed by floor-to-ceiling book shelves. He had us sit down.
After twenty minutes of typing through databases, we found her name. Sala Liberman. Born 1927. She was at a different camp. Not here. He told us. She came through here, and registered, but then was sent to one of our satellite camps. My dad was disappointed. I thought this would be it. But I didn t feel the same disappointment anymore. I came into the trip expecting to find out more about my grandmother s experience in the Holocaust. I didn t get a lot of information about her teenage years, but I was beginning to understand who she was after the war her fear, her silence, and her impact on her family. I didn t find the story I thought I was going to find but I found a story nevertheless. We asked the staff member why he was here. Why work in an unknown concentration camp? He said that when he was in university, his history professors forbid studying the Nazis as history. They said. It was too recent leave the Nazis and the Holocaust to the political scientists. So he left, and started conducting research on the small, lesser-known concentration camps. He didn t care what the professors said. He thought that this was important. And now, he said, They are going to publish my work. He took off his glasses; there were tears in his eyes. I started thinking about how my grandmother might have felt sharing what was important to her. I didn t have a definitive answer for that. Then I started thinking about how I would feel if I shared what was important to me.
Berlin: By the time we got to Berlin, I was emotionally exhausted. We visited the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, which contains hundreds and hundreds of stories. I m not sure if I can remember all of those stories. It s hard enough to keep my grandmother s story alive. But it is important to me, so I better try. Conclusion: At the end of the tape, the interviewer asked my grandmother if she had any parting words for her grandchildren. I expected my grandmother to tell me to Never Forget. Never forget the Holocaust, and don t let it happen again. It s what my grandfather always told me to do. But my grandmother said something different. Don t be a dummy. Don t say nothing and be dummies like we were. I guess my grandmother s story was not in the tape. It was in all the things she wanted to say but could not. Even while planning this trip, I was not sure I was going to publish the memoir. I m private, and I m always afraid to say what I am thinking, or talk about myself. But I ve been changed. I don t know if I will say something important. But I think that is important that I say something. I cannot thank the Wilkins fellowship enough. Thank you for the opportunity to remember. Thank you for the opportunity to change. The passage below is an excerpt from the memoir. There will be more. My grandmother could not say what she wanted to, it was too painful, and I understand that. But I am capable of saying something, so I think I will.
Colorado, USA. 1970. In America, they called her Sally. In the bar, they didn t call her anything. They just ordered their drink. I always called my grandmother by the Yiddish term, Bubbe. It was 3:00 am. Bubbe s shift had ended at 2:00 am. She had many jobs before this one. She had been a house-cleaner, a waitress, and a factory worker. Today she was a bartender. In the moments she was home, Bubbe cleaned. She was particular about the tidiness of her home and used manual tasks to keep her thoughts occupied. She dusted tables, cleaned dishes, and vacuumed carpets. To Bubbe, cleanliness was more than soothing or aesthetically pleasing. It was essential. Tonight, she came home to a dim house. Her kids were in bed, but the TV remained on, projecting cartoons onto the walls. She was exhausted. My grandfather walked straight to the bedroom. He worked in the bar, too. Bubbe dragged herself to the kitchen. She leaned against the doorframe and looked at the damage. It wasn t any different than normal. She stared at the haphazard collection of bowls, plates, pots, and cups. These were left behind by her five children, who made their own dinner every night. Smashed potato chip crumbs lingered on the floor, in the sink, and in the empty bags. She worked very hard today. That was usual for her. In fact, it was usual for a lot of people. But today, it did not matter how normal it was. All the mattered was she worked very hard today. She lifted a plate and threw it against the wall. The house woke up at the sound. Bubbe swore. She lifted another plate and started smashing and screaming, smashing and screaming California, USA. 2015. The problem is, Bubbe is not an amazing success story, Dad tells me. She s not like that one Holocaust survivor that became CEO of her own company. Bubbe was a hard worker, but she was also pretty normal.
Yeah, I say. I just told him I was stuck. Writer s block. Really all she did was raise a family. Unfortunately, that s kind of ordinary. Maybe you should write a historical fiction novel. I think that would be hard, but pretty cool. You would have to create a character. Maybe, I say. But I wanted to tell Bubbe s story. Yeah, Dad agrees. That s hard, too. She didn t talk much. And like I said, she wasn t a visionary or artist. She was a mom and an employee. Kind of ordinary. Hamburg, Germany. 1944. Working in the concentration camp was a lot different than working in the ghetto because the concentration camp had more rules. Comb your hair. Clean the barracks. Clean the toilets. Say your number. Say your number in German with perfect pronunciation. Bubbe counted the buttons on her prisoner s uniform each day; if she was missing one she would be punished. Every day, Bubbe and one-thousand others dragged cement and brick to build warehouses. She wore wooden shoes, with rotting, slippery soles. Often, she had to slide on her back with the bricks in her lap to avoid falling. Winters in Hamburg were brutally cold. The wind whipped through Bubbe s skinny body, and the snow dampened her clothes. Even hard manual labor could not shake the cold clasping to her bones. For five years, Bubbe had been obedient. She had listened to every German soldier and every Jewish policeman. She knew coats were forbidden, so she wrapped herself in cement bags. They were not warm, but they were an extra layer of insulation. She tucked the plastic underneath her uniform so that she would not break dress code. Sound gave her away. An officer heard rustling and turned towards Bubbe. As she had been lugging cement, one of the bags unraveled and fluttered above her collar bone. The officer saw this, shouted, and called a guard over. The female guard raised her rubber button and beat Bubbe unconscious. Apparently, wearing cement bags was against the rules.
The next day, Bubbe limped to roll call. When the time came, she held her purplish-blue arms against her sides and shouted. Prisoner 1453! And battered, bruised prisoner 1453 went to work, as always. Colorado, USA. 2015. My uncle reads my grandmother s eulogy. There are about six rows of chairs here, five chairs in each. Some people stand, but not too many. My father and his siblings are in the first row, closest to the outdoor podium. I m in the row behind them, examining the grass beneath my feet, watching blackbirds scuttle between the trees. The word my uncle says are the ones I would expect. He says he wishes we had more time. He says family was important to her, and she touched our lives. As I listen, my eyes drift to the other gravestones. I read the repeated inscription, loving mother, sister, wife, or loving father, brother, husband. It s a silent lullaby, a familiar song. My uncle begins to talk about her personality, drawing my eyes back to the chairs and podium. He says she was a caretaker. He says she was strong-willed and courageous. The audience nods their bowed heads. We agree. These words describe her. But perhaps, I think, these words describe many people. Perhaps these words describe the ordinary, whatever that means. My uncle folds his paper twice, so that the words of her eulogy are no longer visible. The ceremony progresses. We listen, we watch, we remember. And we bury my grandmother, the ordinary woman with the extraordinary story.