FEATURE
HITLER
lost again
How my grandfather defeated Hitler I BY YAEL ZOLDAN
36 JEWISH LIFE
ISSUE 86
THE NAZIS TOOK HIS PARENTS, HIS SIBLINGS,
HIS HOME AND HIS CHILDHOOD. THEY DID NOT
MANAGE TO TAKE HIS LOVE, WARMTH AND JOY.
deported to the hell of Auschwitz in a cattle
car, in the mass Hungarian transports of
1944. His father had been taken to the
forced labour camps years earlier, before
his barmitzvah. His mother and sister were
beaten as they were herded into the ghetto.
He remembers the sound of his mother
moaning in pain on the cold, hard earth.
The soles of her feet had been whipped. She
could not stand and there were no beds.
Arriving at the station in Auschwitz after the nightmarish journey, a Polish Jew
advised him to say he was 16 and not 14,
thus saving his life. He had not eaten in
three days. It was Shabbos and my grandfather stole a piece of bread from a pile in
another barracks. He handed the bread to
the Rebbe of Krasna, who made Kiddush
on it and shared it with them all. In the
block, they were packed like animals,
standing and sleeping on the floor. He
stuck closely together with four other
boys, a small band of children, stealing,
hiding and lying to survive. My grandfather borrowed a white coat and passed
himself off as a kitchen worker where he
could grab the occasional onion or potato
to share with his friends. “Death hovered
constantly over me… my eyes saw heartrending things.”
At age 15, he was liberated. He
searched for his father but discovered
that he was long dead. He found his sister, Raizel, but she was deathly ill, her
lungs destroyed by the war. Within a few
weeks, she had died too. My grandfather
looked around at the destruction of his
world and realised that everyone he loved
or who had ever loved him was dead. He
was alone. A child, completely and utterly
alone in a cruel world that hated him and
wished him gone.
He spoke of his anger and bitterness
and confusion. He spoke of starvation
and torture and beatings. Of the ghetto,
tuberculosis, torment, forced labour. He
spoke of his difficulties on coming to
America. The harshness of a life of loneliness; the guilt of the survivor. He said
these things briefly, and matter-of-factly.
He was not looking for sympathy. He was
just telling the truth.
PHOTOGRAPH: BIGSTOCKPHOTO.COM
YESTERDAY, IN A RENTED ROOM IN BROOKLYN,
Hitler lost the war all over again.
We ate blintzes, lox and bagels while it
happened. We smiled and caught up with
each other over iced cappuccino, on tables
adorned with white hydrangeas in hammered silver vases. Small children drew
with crayons and strung beads on lanyards at the arts and crafts area, as my
grandfather vanquished his enemy.
Yesterday, my Zaidy, a war orphan,
Auschwitz survivor, child victim of man’s
inhumanity to man, gathered his family
to celebrate 70 years since his liberation
from Auschwitz. In a clear voice, he stood
up and spoke about his life, to a room
filled to capacity with over 150 people, all
of them his children, grandchildren and
great-grandchildren.
Mo \