I grew up a child of survivors of the Holocaust. It was a childhood like no other, devoid of grandparents, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews. My parents did their best; our great Aunt Masha and Uncle Abe and their family helped fill the void with their caring, but it was lonely.
While my father was mostly silent, my mother spoke incessantly about her parents and siblings who perished in the Lodz ghetto and Auschwitz. She authored two autobiographies, Where Are My Brothers and In Search of Ashes, while I was a teenager. I even contributed poetry to her book. But after hearing her speak constantly about her lost family, I, as a young teenager craving a “normal” upbringing, found it increasingly hard to bear. At one point, in my exasperation, I cried out, “ENOUGH!!” I can picture the hurt look on my mother’s face and I truly still regret my reaction.
With maturation, and a greater understanding of her pain and suffering, I realized that she taught me and others so much. As I accompanied her to many schools and heard her speak eloquently to a spellbound audience about her tragic experience and loss, my admiration and empathy for her only grew.
This lesson of remembrance is one I will never regret, nor should I or the world. Thank you. Ma.
