International Holocaust Remembrance Day is not as crucial in Israel as it is in the world. In Israel, Holocaust Remembrance Day comes a week ahead of Israel’s Memorial Day and Independence Day, which comes next. Thus, the concept of “from the Holocaust to Revival” is presented. Nowadays, the remembrance of the Holocaust has been ever so important in light of the “fake news,” and proceedings, and actions that are spread around. We need to keep in mind the last century’s unthinkable acts of evil.
There was no fake news when the International Holocaust Remembrance Day was established. Just real facts backed up by evidence, documents, witnesses, and survivors on the one hand. On the other hand, were sheer lies still being spread. There are countries (Poland, for one) that try to exonerate themselves by spreading untruths. There are right-wing scholars and politicians, not to mention anti-Semitic organizations that advertise real lies. It is not only the “alternative and fake facts” that the International Holocaust Remembrance Day has to overcome nowadays, but forgetfulness. Hence, International Holocaust Remembrance Day is important as a reminder, a means of deterrence, of putting people on guard.
Only if we perceive and remember the historical, social, and political processes that preceded the Holocaust can we stop the next one! Since the “second time” is usually much more sophisticated and fiercer, one must try to prevent it at all costs. To refute “scholars in their own eyes” and academics who make their name by denying the Holocaust, we must have facts and testimonies. Thus, we must use the witnesses and testimonies that still exist today and record others in every possible way.
One of my greatest sins, maybe it’s a mistake made by all children, is taking their parents for granted. They were always here, and they would still be. True, we are all aware that they are growing old. We understand that the day will come when we will take care of them as they cared for us. But we do not think about what will be lost when they are gone. We never ask direct questions that will bug us later, as we believe it will offend them. Here’s a sad anecdote about the Charoset recipe on Passover eve as a small example. When my sister-in-law asked me what to bring to the Seder table, I asked her for Charoset since I never prepared one. Charoset is a dish made of nuts and dates. My sister-in-law was very pleased. However, a couple of minutes later, she called me back, crying. She said, “But I cannot ask my mother how to make it!” Her words shook me gravely, and I decided to document my parents’ past, as I was able to reconstruct, for generations to come.
Both my parents came to Israel as pioneers. My father sailed to Israel on a ship by the name of “Parita“ that left Costanza, Romania. There were 850 Beitar members on board the vessel, which was fit to carry about 300 people. The immigrants did not have immigration permits, and despite the Tel Aviv residents’ efforts, most of the immigrants were arrested by the British. They were taken to Sarafand detention camp. A few days later, on September 1, 1939, World War II broke out, and the Brits let the illegal immigrants go. My father refused to talk about the home he left behind. Rare emotional circumstances would crack the wall of silence, and we would get a glimpse of his former life. He always claimed that it was “kalte kashe” (the expression is in Yiddish meaning: “cold porridge,” denoting a thing that is not important anymore.)
My mother came to Israel three years before him as a licensed immigrant having a certificate (immigration permit issued by the British). The British license allowed married couples’ immigration, thereby doubling the number of eligible immigrants. This created fake marriages between single men and single women, who “married” to obtain the permit to get to Israel. She never talked about it, or about her way to the Land of Israel, nor her large family, or her memories of Vilkomir (later renamed Ukmergė). Since she was a legal immigrant, she brought some stuff from home. After her death, I found some pictures and albums I had never seen. I did not know who watched me from the brown photos with their yellow edges. There is no one to ask. Some of the pictures were large and did not go into albums. They were wrapped in large envelopes, and Silverfish feasted on them.
Luckily, I still had one living aunt. She was my uncle’s wife, my mother’s brother. It turned out that she knows the history of the family. She identified the persons photographed in the big damaged pictures. For the first time in my life, I saw my grandparents on my mother’s side in large clear photos. There are some pictures of her brother and her nephews. I had such a big family.
For many years, my mother listened to the radio “Search for relatives,” a short ten-minute radio program that was broadcast several times a day and echoed across Tel Aviv streets. The program is still on the air today, albeit in a different format. The names of the persons looking for relatives and the names of the relatives that they were looking for were read over and over. It aided many families to find relatives that survived. My mother discovered her two younger brothers in Russia. For many years she sent requests to the Russian authorities to bring her two brothers to Israel. Finally, she succeeded. About the family that “disappeared,” no one spoke. She never mentioned how and where her family, Grinstein, was killed. This information was clouded under the title Holocaust! (“They were murdered in the Holocaust,” Darling).
My father never spoke of his parents’ and sisters’ death either, nor did I know if he knew. One day, a cousin who lives in Canada came to visit. He was the youngest child in the family. Then I learned that the Nazis did not murder my father’s family, but by Ukrainian peasants, Jews killing was one of their favorite activities over the years. They entered the Jewish houses early in the morning, armed with thorns and knives, and murdered all in their beds. The hooligans did not spot the cousin as the blankets hid him. He is one of the few that survived. I saw my father crying, and I did not dare to ask questions.
My mother did not say a word about how and where her family was murdered. I thought that she did not know. But my aunt told me, upon my asking, the story of my mother’s family murder. When my grandfather, a well-to-do man with a truck company, realized that the Jews were going to die, he decided to run away. He put the entire family, children, their in-laws, and grandchildren, onto the trucks and wagons and set off. They traveled for 15 consecutive hours until nightfall. They arrived in Breslow, where they stopped to rest and allowed the families to sleep. His two single sons, my mother’s brothers, decided not to stay for the night. They reached Russia safely and survived. Eventually, my mother found them, and they came to Israel. The following morning, the Nazis caught and murdered the rest of the family, along with the Breslow Jews.
Disclosure: I do not guarantee the historical truth of the things described in this post. This is what I do know, and I write it down as documentation. I will forever regret that I did not dare ask. If you have additional information that will shed light on that time’s historical events or a story of your own that you wish to document and share, please write below.
