A Granddaughter’s Reflections

From the depths of Europe my family has survived. I have been taught since I was a small child all about the inferno that took over Europe, and more importantly the lives of my grandparents. This raging conflagration left behind little but the charred remnants of memories of lives taken out by murderers and monsters. For as far back as I can remember I can recall my grandparents speak of their days penned up like animals in the Siberian work camps and prisons. Their eyes would well up with tears as they would recall the horrors that they lived through, and then those tears would spill over as they would remember those who never made it as far as they did. The years of the Holocaust were riddled with pain and agony. Those who survived are often called the lucky ones, but I secretly wonder if that is really true. Those who survived were left behind with the horrible memories of the pain and suffering, while those who died, mercifully found peace once death came. I believe that those who perished at the hands of the Nazis were escorted directly into the gates of eternal heaven with G-d as their escort. There were no questions asked, and no tribunals to be had. All of those who were murdered for being a Jew, in the eyes of G-d, perished for the most sacred reason of all. They died in His name, and in His honor. They were martyrs. Not because they chose to be… but because that is what the world had in store for them.

But what of the survivors? Where do they wear their badge of honor? For they too have certainly earned their place of honor in the annals of history. We so often look at pictures of the holocaust in horror as we see the piles of corpses and chimneys billowing with human ash. But the horrors did not end there. They continue on to this very day. For the survivors, life had to continue on. They could not stop living. Each day continued on at a steady clip…. fighting, just to keep up. Moving from DP camp to DP camp, and then on to more permanent homes in countries such as the United States and Israel. Never stop moving.

Even in her “golden years” we used to say to my grandmother, “Grandma, sit down, relax…sit with us and have a cup of tea.” But not my grandmother. She always sat at the edge of her seat. Poised for the next moment to come; for the next job to come up, for the next important second to occur, where she could jump up and manage it and take care of it. She was forever managing life. Working multiple jobs, taking care of the home, cooking, cleaning, sewing. Whatever needed to be done… Sara Goldsammler could do it… she was the manager… but not always with a smile. Her's was a smile dulled by war and tarnished through suffering. I think somewhere in Siberia there is an old Russian man boasting to his grandchildren all about his days guarding the Jewish vermin in the camps, and how he “stole even the smile” off of one beautiful little Jewess. I know that this must be true, because my grandmother lost her smile somewhere back then, and I don’t think she ever truly found it again.

My grandfather on the other hand was a man whose smile shone brightly. He was a man of the theater. He loved to tell his stories of the times before the war. My last time talking to him before he passed away was so wonderful. He told me a sweet little story of how he used to build radios out of old cigar boxes and would try to hear radio stations from France. His eyes twinkled as he spoke. He would pat me on the face and pinch my cheeks. But the Holocaust never left his mind. He would often tell of a time when the Goldsammler name conjured visions of great wealth. I would quickly remind him to look around at all that his son and daughter have accomplished and how beautiful their homes are and how beautiful his grandchildren’s homes are, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He spoke of a time when his immediate family consisted of 10 brothers and sisters, all but two married, and many with children of their own. When he would speak of the family in those numbers, I could not help but agree that, yes, we were perhaps wealthier back then.

So many people think of the Holocaust as a horrible atrocity that happened in Europe to a generation that is unfortunately fading away. Many people say “Learn about it now, so that it will never happen again”. Of course this is all true. However, the Holocaust is so much more. The Holocaust is not merely a piece of history that must be remembered so that it does not happen again. The Holocaust is something that continues to affect my own life still today. It affects the way I, and many like me, look at the world. The way we see the people around us, and the way we live our lives. A glass of water takes on new meaning. A potato takes on a life of its own, and G-d help you if you try to throw away a piece of bread! We are the children and grandchildren born to spite Hitler's killing machine but whose lives often drift among the shadows of his wreckage.

We have been labeled "Third Generation." That is what they call us, the grandchildren of the survivors. The "First Generation" is of course the survivors themselves. The generation of the Holocaust. The generation that had the tenacity and audacity to survive against all odds. It was up to them to start it all over again. And start again they did. Then came the "Second Generation," the children of these mighty people. The children that history has dubbed "born from the ashes."

Now here I am, two generations later. Two generations wiser. Two generations removed from the horrors of the past. I am not, as the previous generation was, "born from the ashes." I am a woman born from the hope of a new day. I am a member of an exclusive group who will have been the last to hear, first-hand, of the Nazi's crimes against my people. But I am also a member of the elite generation to have witnessed first-hand what will undoubtedly come to be known as the Jewish people's ultimate return to their homeland.

I have been born to a generation of Jews that stands at the precipice of change. Behind us lies a barren wasteland of horror and before us lies the potential for unimaginable and infinite splendor. I am of a generation far enough removed from the tragedies of yesteryear to be able chase after the hope of tomorrow but still close enough to appreciate that it is nothing less than a miracle that I can do so.

Yes, my life is forever darkened by the horrors of the past but it is also illuminated by the promise of what lies ahead. I have stood on the land that my ancient ancestors walked on and touched the stones marking the very spot where innumerable prayers, thousands of years old, have been directed. I have flown in the skies above the Holy Land, taking in a prophetic "Eagle's eye view" and have marched through the holiest of cities in celebration of its return to Jewish hands.

Mine is not a generation without its problems and difficulties. We too have seen our share of tragedy and sadness. But for all of the sadness... hope remains alive. Perhaps THAT is the badge of honor that we can bestow upon the survivors of the Holocaust. Perhaps it is our ability to move on from sorrow and rebuild from tragedy that we can attribute to them. Perhaps it is our very being, our very existance that bears witness to their greatness and heroism.

As we prepare to celebrate Israel's Independence Day, Yom Ha'atzmaut, let us remember that we ARE the hope of yesterday and we should always strive to be the heroes of tomorrow.

Welcome to my brain

Hello everyone (or anyone)!
After many years of being encouraged by family, friends, coworkers, doctors, rabbis and complete strangers to write a book, I have finally decided to give in and try my hand at blogging. It seems like a fair first step into the world of "writing," and the best part is that it can evolve with me. Writing a book requires linear thinking and structuring. It follows a logical sequence and requires the writer to follow a certain storyline or format. Blogging, on the other hand allows for, and even requires, a certain level of informality and fluidity that ebbs and flows as life occurs. There are no rules to blogging. It is organic and ever evolving. It therefore seems the perfect medium for me!

I will confess that I am very unsure about this new venture. I wonder who will read my thoughts... and why! The thought of starting my blog was daunting to say the least. Off the bat I was assaulted with questions from my computer's "blogger wizard" that I had no idea how to answer! "What is the title of your blog?" it asked. "Well, I don't know! I hadn't thought that far ahead! All I wanted was to jot down some thoughts... and now you, Mr. Computer, want to give it a title and definition?" Sheesh. This wasn't quite as "organic" an experience as I had once hoped it would be now was it?

So, I sat down with my computer and started thinking about a title. I wondered what it was exactly that I intended to write about and how to relay that in a title of only a few short words. I thought back to the many suggestions I have received in the past regarding my writing. So much has been suggested. I have been told to write about illness, about teaching, about religion and about faith. I have been told to write seriously and to write with humor, to write about others and to write about myself. In essence, it seems, I have been told to write about life. And write I will!

I want to write about the ups, the downs and the upside downs. The good times, the sad times, the hard times, and the fun times. All of it is important and all of it makes me who I am... and THAT is what I want to write about. So you may wonder "where did she get the title from?" The answer is simple. There is a metaphor that I once heard which compares life to a tapestry. We humans are only able to see the back of the tapestry, replete with knots and hanging strings interwoven amongst sections of intricate beauty. To the naked eye it might seem that it is nothing more than a jumble of threads strewn together in a haphazard disconnected mess. It is our job to remember though that we are only looking at the back of the tapestry. There is a Master Tapestry-maker who can see the other side and is busy creating the most exquisite picture for all of mankind.

It is my intention to write all about life, but to always remind myself and whoever might read my words that through both the good and the bad we are never really seeing the whole picture. We must always remember that the good and the bad both come from the same source and that His handiwork is nothing less than perfect... always... knots and all!