Stories From The People
From Jackie Ruben:
I am a psychology graduate student. My grandmother is Hungarian and,
although
she left Hungary right before the war, she lost many relatives including
her parents
and two siblings. I wrote the following personal essay at the beginning of
this
year. Would you please post it in the Cybrary?
Jackie Ruben ----
In My Grandmother's Kitchen
By Jackie Ruben
I am in my grandmother's kitchen, in apartment 8B on Avenida del
Libertador, Buenos Aires. It's the late 1970s. I'm a child and I sit on
that
old blue table where my own mom once must have sat at my age to eat,
as
I will, a feast of "chicken paprikash" with "tarhonya" noodles, that old
family recipe handed down for so many generations and which marries
so
well with that rich chocolate roulade, "kalacs" that my grandma has
made
for dessert.
What do we talk about, as my grandma chops the onions, the green
peppers, the tomatoes, and starts to saute them at low heat?.... I have a
mental picture of my beautiful grandmother, ever vigilant, making sure
that the onions are translucent enough, yet not burnt. Everything's all
right....
"Mami, where are your parents?"
Something changes... Can my little child memories crystallize?
"They're dead....,"a whisper,".... they were killed...."
She sets her wooden spoon down and stares out the window, her left
hand touching her cheek and covering her mouth, as I've often seen her
do since that first memory, so many years ago.
"Were they killed with a sword?"
No answer... What's happened here? I've never seen my grandmother
cry... her bright green-grey eyes become water as I approach her,
wandering, fearing whatever it is, what the shadow, the terrible thing
is...
And she hugs me and whispers in my ear, "No, my 'muggetcita,' my little
flower, no..."
Later that day, my mother would explain that my grandmother's
parents,
her sister Irenke, her brother Gyula, his wife Etush, their children and
many more family members, had been "gassed," whatever that meant, at
a
place called Auschwitz. I learned the meaning of that name way before
I
could spell...I also learned soon enough not to ask my grandmother about
her family too often. She didn't even talk with my mom and my aunt
about those things. Although I was curious, I didn't want my Mami to
cry. Words floated in low, somber tones, though, and I heard them
all..."Nazis...SS...Zyklon B... concentration camps...." And I
remembered.
Holocaust...The word that symbolized my family's taboo subject. To
me, it is a word that encompasses it all, yet will never be enough. It is
a
word that has followed me throughout my life. It is also the wound of
my
heart that will never heal. It is, in short, my family legacy--one that, I
have
sworn to myself, I will pass down to the generations--the most
important
lesson to teach my kids.
The meaning of the word "Holocaust" embodies, more than anything, the
biggest lesson, the most important present that my grandmother has
given
me. She has taught me, through her pain, that we must never forget.
Sixty
years have not eased the crack in her soul. When my grandmother thinks
of her Hungarian family, she is my age again, timeless, finding out
again
and again and again that she will NEVER see her family again.
And I have turned my twenty-three years of learning on her. We went to
Hungary last year, she and I, as well as my parents. For her, it was the
first time she would return in close to sixty years.
We went to Mezocsat, the town of her youth. We found the Jewish
Cemetery and there, amidst the overgrown weeds and fallen
tombstones,
we saw the wall with the names of the town's Jews that had been
taken.
There are no tombs to visit... there are only names and ages on a wall,
unchanging, like the faces on the photographs...
For the first time in my life, my dead family materialized... I saw then,
that those names had belonged to REAL people. I felt their presence, our
link... people who were not just my grandma's family who had been
murdered in the Holocaust, but MINE as well.
My family too had been murdered.
And although we had not tombstones, you see, we did put a little stone
at
the wall, for each of the "Schwarcz" listed and for the rest of the
Mezocsat
Jews, whose memories only survive as names on these hard, cold
walls,
and as memories in those old folks who knew them and those young
folks
who, like me, refuse to forget.
When I went back home to visit during the winter break, the few photos
left of my family became oh-so-precious. I laser-copied them.
Irenke, my grandmother's sister, you and I were born on the same date...
I have your Yiddish name, Bluma... and, like you, I like to cook...
"Oh sons of Irenke," I wrote in my photo album," Oh, children of Gyula,
where are your sweet little faces? Sweet Irenke and Etush, you're
frozen
in time forever. Beautiful Jewish women. Innocent Jewish women.
Where's Hermina, my mother's "Mami,"-your body wasn't allowed to
follow its natural course neither in life nor in death. Your spirits
surround
me, your eyes haunt me. I look at your hands in these old photos but
can't
reach across death and time to touch them... I can see them becoming
ashes... WHY?"
"Irenke, you haunt me, sister, grand-aunt...Twin: we were born years
apart, yet on the same date. Who were you? What were your dreams?
Beautiful photos don't reveal the horror. Bluma, I didn't know you but
you won't be forgotten. You weren't given a chance to have your own
children, my cousins too have been murdered. I give you my descendants.
They'll remember you, though it isn't the same, is it?....Would you have
taught your little ones how to make "kalacs" and recite the "Sh'ma" like
my "Mami"-your "Margitka" taught me? We'll never know...."
There are six empty pages in my photo album that will never be filled
with
the photos never taken of my murdered family's descendants.
There are six million empty album pages that will never be filled.
There are, on the other hand, survivors. They can help fill some of the
pages... they are old, but like my grandmother, they remember well...
and
they can help us write the book about Shoah that can never be
completely
filled.
From Jackie Ruben:
I am a psychology graduate student. My grandmother is Hungarian and,
although
she left Hungary right before the war, she lost many relatives including
her parents
and two siblings. I wrote the following personal essay at the beginning of
this
year. Would you please post it in the Cybrary?
Jackie Ruben ----
In My Grandmother's Kitchen
By Jackie Ruben
I am in my grandmother's kitchen, in apartment 8B on Avenida del
Libertador, Buenos Aires. It's the late 1970s. I'm a child and I sit on
that
old blue table where my own mom once must have sat at my age to eat,
as
I will, a feast of "chicken paprikash" with "tarhonya" noodles, that old
family recipe handed down for so many generations and which marries
so
well with that rich chocolate roulade, "kalacs" that my grandma has
made
for dessert.
What do we talk about, as my grandma chops the onions, the green
peppers, the tomatoes, and starts to saute them at low heat?.... I have a
mental picture of my beautiful grandmother, ever vigilant, making sure
that the onions are translucent enough, yet not burnt. Everything's all
right....
"Mami, where are your parents?"
Something changes... Can my little child memories crystallize?
"They're dead....,"a whisper,".... they were killed...."
She sets her wooden spoon down and stares out the window, her left
hand touching her cheek and covering her mouth, as I've often seen her
do since that first memory, so many years ago.
"Were they killed with a sword?"
No answer... What's happened here? I've never seen my grandmother
cry... her bright green-grey eyes become water as I approach her,
wandering, fearing whatever it is, what the shadow, the terrible thing
is...
And she hugs me and whispers in my ear, "No, my 'muggetcita,' my little
flower, no..."
Later that day, my mother would explain that my grandmother's
parents,
her sister Irenke, her brother Gyula, his wife Etush, their children and
many more family members, had been "gassed," whatever that meant, at
a
place called Auschwitz. I learned the meaning of that name way before
I
could spell...I also learned soon enough not to ask my grandmother about
her family too often. She didn't even talk with my mom and my aunt
about those things. Although I was curious, I didn't want my Mami to
cry. Words floated in low, somber tones, though, and I heard them
all..."Nazis...SS...Zyklon B... concentration camps...." And I
remembered.
Holocaust...The word that symbolized my family's taboo subject. To
me, it is a word that encompasses it all, yet will never be enough. It is
a
word that has followed me throughout my life. It is also the wound of
my
heart that will never heal. It is, in short, my family legacy--one that, I
have
sworn to myself, I will pass down to the generations--the most
important
lesson to teach my kids.
The meaning of the word "Holocaust" embodies, more than anything, the
biggest lesson, the most important present that my grandmother has
given
me. She has taught me, through her pain, that we must never forget.
Sixty
years have not eased the crack in her soul. When my grandmother thinks
of her Hungarian family, she is my age again, timeless, finding out
again
and again and again that she will NEVER see her family again.
And I have turned my twenty-three years of learning on her. We went to
Hungary last year, she and I, as well as my parents. For her, it was the
first time she would return in close to sixty years.
We went to Mezocsat, the town of her youth. We found the Jewish
Cemetery and there, amidst the overgrown weeds and fallen
tombstones,
we saw the wall with the names of the town's Jews that had been
taken.
There are no tombs to visit... there are only names and ages on a wall,
unchanging, like the faces on the photographs...
For the first time in my life, my dead family materialized... I saw then,
that those names had belonged to REAL people. I felt their presence, our
link... people who were not just my grandma's family who had been
murdered in the Holocaust, but MINE as well.
My family too had been murdered.
And although we had not tombstones, you see, we did put a little stone
at
the wall, for each of the "Schwarcz" listed and for the rest of the
Mezocsat
Jews, whose memories only survive as names on these hard, cold
walls,
and as memories in those old folks who knew them and those young
folks
who, like me, refuse to forget.
When I went back home to visit during the winter break, the few photos
left of my family became oh-so-precious. I laser-copied them.
Irenke, my grandmother's sister, you and I were born on the same date...
I have your Yiddish name, Bluma... and, like you, I like to cook...
"Oh sons of Irenke," I wrote in my photo album," Oh, children of Gyula,
where are your sweet little faces? Sweet Irenke and Etush, you're
frozen
in time forever. Beautiful Jewish women. Innocent Jewish women.
Where's Hermina, my mother's "Mami,"-your body wasn't allowed to
follow its natural course neither in life nor in death. Your spirits
surround
me, your eyes haunt me. I look at your hands in these old photos but
can't
reach across death and time to touch them... I can see them becoming
ashes... WHY?"
"Irenke, you haunt me, sister, grand-aunt...Twin: we were born years
apart, yet on the same date. Who were you? What were your dreams?
Beautiful photos don't reveal the horror. Bluma, I didn't know you but
you won't be forgotten. You weren't given a chance to have your own
children, my cousins too have been murdered. I give you my descendants.
They'll remember you, though it isn't the same, is it?....Would you have
taught your little ones how to make "kalacs" and recite the "Sh'ma" like
my "Mami"-your "Margitka" taught me? We'll never know...."
There are six empty pages in my photo album that will never be filled
with
the photos never taken of my murdered family's descendants.
There are six million empty album pages that will never be filled.
There are, on the other hand, survivors. They can help fill some of the
pages... they are old, but like my grandmother, they remember well...
and
they can help us write the book about Shoah that can never be
completely
filled.