“So why did you eventually go through with it?” Zak asked.
Moishe turned to study the boy’s face with his clear blue eyes. “That’s a very good question,” he said. “In that camp I lost my family, my friends, and my faith in God. I believed that we had been forsaken, that God had abandoned his supposedly ‘chosen people.’ As you know, when a young man is bar mitzvah he makes a pact with God to follow the commandments and behave ethically according to Jewish law, and yet where was God when ‘His’ people were forced from their homes onto cattle cars to be taken to camps set up specifically for the purpose of murder. Then upon arrival to be herded into gas chambers or lined up and shot; their bodies thrown into pits or burned to ash in the crematoria. It did not seem to me that God was holding up his end of the deal. I was angry with God; I cursed him.”
“I’ve wondered that myself about the Holocaust,” Zak said.
“Well, you should because the answer lies at the very heart of Judaism,” Moishe replied. “Only after I came to America and the horror and sadness of the preceding years faded somewhat was I able to reflect on it. Only then was I able to look at the evil men who had persecuted us and compared them to the many good men and women and children who were their victims. It was then I realized that those men were gone, defeated, banished, and reviled as the monsters they had been, and yet we were still here—God’s chosen people. Those others tried to exterminate us, subjected us to unspeakable horrors, but we survived, not them. Suddenly, I was proud to be a Jew: not just a Jewish partisan fighting in the forest, but part of a heritage that for thousands of years has stayed faithful to the concept of one God, one law, one people, and that no matter what cruel fates history and other people had thrown at us, we had outlasted all of them with our identity intact. That’s when I decided to seek my bar mitzvah and seal my end of that pact with God and our people.”
Zak thought about what Moishe said before replying. “I understand how you would make that decision after everything you had been through. But I don’t feel that same connection; I guess I just don’t feel Jewish.”
Moishe turned his face away from a cold, stiff breeze that found its way down Third Avenue. “No one can, or should, force you to ‘feel Jewish,’ or go forward with the bar mitzvah,” Moishe said. “I think all of our young men should ask themselves before their bar mitzvah if they ‘feel Jewish’ instead of just going through the motions because that’s what their parents expect.” He patted Zak on his shoulder. “You know, I’m glad you are giving this so much thought; you’re not like all those thirteen-year-olds who are mostly looking forward to the party and getting money from their relatives and friends of their parents. If you don’t feel Jewish in your heart and soul, then you should not go through with it.”
Zak smiled slightly and nodded. “Thanks, Moishe. I knew you’d understand. I just don’t want to disappoint my dad. When Giancarlo and I first talked about it, he wondered why we were doing it. But then he started teaching classes at the synagogue and I think it got him to think more about being Jewish. I think he got into the whole thing, maybe more than me and Giancarlo.”
“Your father wants what’s best for you,” Moishe assured him. “He is a good man who, perhaps, has grown in his own relationship with God by examining his subjects—really, discussions about ethics and morality—for the classes he taught. I think you will have to trust that whatever decision you reach, he will stand with you. Now, I need to go in before my friend Rose begins her talk. You’re a good man, too. Now, walk with me to the synagogue.”
When they reached the door, Zak opened it and let Moishe walk through. But he hesitated to come in. “Maybe I’ll just wait for my dad and brother out here.”
“It is too cold,” Moishe replied. “And I think the speaker is someone you should hear. It’s not going to be the rabbi talking your ear off; she is the wife of my oldest and dearest friend, Simon Lubinsky. Humor an old man and sit with me to listen to her story. I think you might get something out of it that could help you with your decision.”
Zak tilted his head and laughed. “You’re very clever, Moishe. But okay, I think I owe you that much.”
The pair entered the synagogue and made their way to where males were seated and took their places next to Karp and Giancarlo. “There’s Simon,” Moishe said, pointing to another old man sitting in the front row.
Zak spotted Goldie seated in the front row of the women’s section next to his mother, Marlene, and a gray-haired woman. He knew she was Rose Lubinsky not because of her connection to the Jewish community but from photographs of her in the newspaper and stories about her work with charter schools.
All conversations stopped when Rabbi Michael Hamilburg, a much-loved spiritual leader known for his kindness and the gentle way he had of dealing with his flock, walked to the front and greeted them. “Shalom, welcome, friends. We are gathered here on this cold evening to listen to a message I think we will all find moving and thought-provoking. We all know Simon and Rose Lubinsky as fellow worshippers, but tonight I’ve asked Rose to share her story with you, although it is a difficult one for her to tell. As you all know, she has written a book about her life called The Lost Children of the Holocaust. Without further ado, Rose Lubinsky.”
With all eyes on her, the gray-haired woman bowed her head and appeared as if she was unsure of what she was about to do. Then Goldie stood and offered her hand, which her friend took and allowed herself to be led to stand in front of the congregation. Goldie kissed her hand and made the sign language symbol of encouragement, then took her seat.
Rose’s face was pale but then she cleared her throat and began. “Shalom, my friends, and thank you for coming,” she said, her voice quiet, uncertain. “I’ve asked to speak tonight as a step in a long road toward unburdening myself of the guilt that I have carried for many years and to help me keep a promise.”
Many in the crowd frowned, or looked confused. They had known her for many years and could not imagine that she carried some dark secret. “Like any long road, this one starts with a first step, so I will begin like this. I am originally from Lublin, Poland, where my people had lived since the seventeenth century. My father, Shmuel Kuratowski, was a bookkeeper for a gentile farming cooperative outside the city, and a gabbai who assisted the rabbi at our local synagogue. I can hardly picture his face before the war, but I remember like it was yesterday his deep, rich voice reading the Torah. My mother, Zofia, was a good woman, who took great care of her husband and her children, and loved God . . . or so I was told. I have no memories of my siblings—I was the youngest of six—and precious few of my mother and father.”
As she spoke, Rose’s voice began to grow stronger, though all who heard her realized that tears were welling just beneath the surface. “I was five years old in 1939 when the war in Europe broke out. And seven in 1941, when the Germans created the Lublin Ghetto where Jews and many Roma, whom we call gypsies, were forced to live. In 1942, our oppressors began herding the inhabitants of the Lublin Ghetto onto cattle cars to be taken to the death camps to be exterminated, my family among them.”
Rose’s voice caught and she struggled for a moment before going on. “Although I have few recollections of this, and most of what I know was later told to me by others, my father had somehow managed to save quite a bit of money. When rumors began to fly that we were going to be sent to the camps, my father was able to persuade one of the gentile farmers, Piotr Stanislaw, and his wife, Anka, with whom he’d had a good relationship, to spirit me out of the ghetto. He gave the Stanislaws every cent he had, but there wasn’t enough money for my brothers and sister, just me.”
Rose took a deep breath and wiped at a tear that trickled down one cheek. “One of my only memories of my mother is the face of a woman crying as she held me one last time. I remember her saying it will be okay. ‘We will find you again someday.’ Then my father pried me away from her and handed me to Piotr. ‘Remember who you are, Rose; remember your family,’ he said. ‘Tak, ojciec,’ y
es, Papa, I promised. And then they were gone.”
More than seventy years later, Rose bowed her head at the memory. “Simple enough instructions. Remember who you are. Remember your family.” She looked up at the faces of her listeners, many of whom had tears in their eyes. “I failed at both, but I was just a little girl, and so perhaps can be forgiven for that at least.”
Rose continued with her story about how the Stanislaws took her in, telling their neighbors that she was the child of Piotr’s brother who’d served in the Polish army and died during the Nazi invasion. “I was lucky to be blond-haired and blue-eyed, and I did not ‘look Jewish.’ ”
The Stanislaws, she said, did everything to allay any suspicion that their “adopted daughter” was a Jew. They hung a gold cross around her neck, had her baptized, and took her to Catholic mass. “They even gave me a new name, Krystiana, ‘follower of Christ,’ and forbade me ever using my real name, ‘Rose,’ even in the privacy of their home.”
Rose paused for a moment. “The Stanislaws saved my life,” she said. “They fed me, gave me a warm place to sleep, and risked their lives to protect me from the Germans, and they later hid me from the Russians. They helped me escape to America. They showed me love, and for that I am forever grateful.” Then her voice grew hard. “But I was stripped of who I was, what I was. My family, my real family, was taken from me and murdered; I was stripped of my culture, my heritage, and my identity. All because we were Jews. In fact, I learned to despise Jews.”
Growing angry, Rose began to pace in front of her audience. “The transformation didn’t happen overnight. My memories are hazy, but I had loved our Jewish traditions—my father blowing the shofar, and eating apples and honey for Rosh Hashanah; my mother reading the Book of Ruth for Shavuot, lighting the menorah for Chanukah. But the Stanislaws told me that it was for my own protection that I had to forget my family and my culture. They didn’t have to say much more than that; I was already deathly afraid of the German soldiers who treated people so cruelly on the streets and whom my parents had obviously feared. But it was more than that. I came to view Christians, like the Stanislaws, as my protectors, while Jews were weak and shameful.”
The Stanislaws carried the makeover of Rose Kuratowski into Krystiana even further. “Perhaps to protect me, or maybe because they believed it, my parents, as I came to think of them, like most of their neighbors, voiced no objections to what they knew was going on in the death camps. The Polish curse brudny Zid, ‘dirty Jew’ seemed to come too easily from their lips to be wholly a ruse to fit in. But even more shamefully, I used it, too.”
Slowly, the memory of her real family faded. “I know they were transported to Sobibor, and though I have no record of what happened to them, I can surmise their fate was the same as three hundred thousand other people who were sent there. Arriving at the depot, they were relieved of their possessions and separated: men and boys capable of labor in one group; women, children, and the infirm in another. The women were forced to strip naked and had their hair shorn; then they were made to run through an enclosure called The Tube and into a building where, they were told, they would take showers. Once they were inside, the doors were locked while soldiers on the outside started an engine and pumped carbon monoxide fumes into the death chamber. When all were dead, the doors on the opposite end were opened and the Sonderkommandos—prisoners forced to do this horrific job—removed the bodies and threw them into a pit for burial.”
Rose’s voice faltered. Then she looked over at her husband who nodded to encourage her. “There are those here who know much more than I about the horrors of Sobibor so I won’t go into more detail. But I do know that the Germans kept excellent records, so that I was able to learn the day that my mother and siblings arrived in hell and died. My father was a Sonderkommando, and most of them were killed, but he escaped Sobibor and survived the war.”
This time when Rose tried to continue, her voice came out as a whisper and she began to cry. However, as Simon began to rise to go to her side, she raised her hand for him to stop. “I’m okay, my dear husband. This is my journey.” She took another deep breath. “The war ended; the camps were liberated, and the horror of the German ‘Final Solution’ became known to the world. The Jews who survived began returning to their homes, or at least they tried to, only to run into the antagonism of their former neighbors who didn’t want to give up the property they’d stolen in their absence. What’s more, the Jews were a reminder that they had done nothing, said nothing, when their fellow citizens were shipped away to be murdered. In some places, such as Poland, nationalists were no more kind to Jews than the Nazis had been. Even Jewish partisans who had fought the Germans, such as my husband and Moishe Sobelman, were hunted by their former comrades. Jews had to flee again, some to Palestine and the hope of a Jewish state, others to America.”
Rose took a deep breath and let it out as a sigh. “But what of the children who were given into the safekeeping of others by their parents? Most would never see their families again, if they even remembered them or knew their true identities. The parents, relatives, and communities who could have supplied a link to their past and to their heritage were gone. We were the lost children of the Holocaust.
“We identified with our new families. Those ‘other’ people had abandoned us, and worse, they were Jews. We, the children of the lost, had grown up in communities in which Jews were despised, or had deserved what happened to them. The curse ‘brudny Zid’ did not disappear from Polish lips just because the Nazis were gone.
“I was twelve or thirteen years old and had just finished feeding the chickens in the yard when a strange man appeared on the long drive leading to our home. He looked like a scarecrow. A filthy, skinny, haunted scarecrow with his sunken eyes and hollow cheeks; what little hair remained on his head reminded me of a mangy dog. I stood there watching him approach and suddenly wanted to flee, but I was joined by Piotr Stanislaw and then Anka. He stopped a few feet from me and knelt down. Then he smiled . . . a horrible smile without teeth . . . and called me by a name I had all but forgotten. ‘Rose,’ he said.
“I ran behind Piotr’s back and begged him to tell the man to go away. The stranger stood up and I could see the pain on his face, but he tried again, stretching out his hands to me. ‘Rose, I am your father.’ ”
As she spoke, Rose held her arms out in memory of a gesture from long ago. “I remember screaming out of fear and because, I think, I knew that what he said was true.”
The child had looked at the man and woman with whom she had lived for the past four years and Piotr nodded. “He said it was true, the dirty scarecrow was my ojciec, my father. My reaction was to scream, ‘But he’s a brudny Zid, a filthy Jew!’ ”
Rose shook her head sadly. “I refused to let him near me. At one point he got down on his knees and begged me to let him hold me. ‘You are all I have left,’ he begged. But when Piotr brought me over to him, I spit in his face.”
At last the scarecrow who was her father stopped trying and covered his face with his hands. “He let out a sob that was the saddest and loneliest sound I have ever heard. For a moment, I felt sorry for him, but not enough to go to him. And finally Piotr told him, ‘Maybe you should leave, and you can try again some other day.’ And so my father, Shmuel Kuratowski, the man who made me my first and only dreidel, who saved every last cent he could so that he and my mother could buy my safety, turned and walked away. . . . I would never see him again.”
Rose stopped speaking, too overcome for the moment, and looked out at her audience. Everywhere heads were bowed and tears streamed down cheeks; there were sniffles and coughs and sobs, but no one moved or spoke. However, she was not through with her story.
“If anything after that encounter I became even more anti-Semitic,” she said. “I joined Polish nationalist youth groups where Jews were not welcome and indeed, reviled. I hid my secret ethnicity with such fervor that no one hated Jews as much as I did.”
Rose stopped for a moment
and looked up at the ceiling of the synagogue. “I turned my back on the God of Israel and threw myself into Catholicism. But the more I rejected my Jewishness, the more the guilt grew in me like a cancer. I could rail against Jews during the day, but in my sleep I saw the devastated face of my father and heard him say, ‘You are all I have left.’ Then one day, I was attending a youth rally in the town park when a young Jewish couple and their daughter had the unfortunate luck of wandering into our midst. They were Orthodox and easy to recognize; he in the broad-brimmed black hat and full beard, her in a modest dress with a floral print. The fascists who were in control of our group set upon them, beating the man senseless and tearing the clothes off of his wife and knocking her to the ground.”
Closing her eyes as she remembered the scene, Rose shook her head. “At first I did nothing. After all, these were brudny Zid. They deserved whatever they got. They’d killed Christ. They were responsible for Godless communism. They made human sacrifices of Christian infants. Nothing was too outlandish to lay at their feet. But then I saw the little girl. She had been standing off to the side crying until her mother was knocked to the ground. That’s when she ran forward and threw herself on that poor woman. I realized that she couldn’t have been much older than I was when my parents, my real parents, gave me to the Stanislaws for safekeeping. One of the thugs grabbed her by her hair and pulled her up; I thought he was going to strike her or worse. Then something snapped in me. I ran forward and slapped him as hard as I could. Surprised, he dropped the little girl.
“He yelled at me, ‘Why did you do that? Are you a Jew lover?’ ”
Rose smiled slightly at the old memory. “To this day I don’t know why exactly I responded as I did, though I think that guilt, that psychological cancer that had been growing in me since I spit on my father, finally took over. I screamed in his face, ‘No. I AM a Jew.’
“The others in the group stood there stunned. Then one at a time, they turned their backs on me until only the man I had slapped and the terrified family was left. He said, ‘I should have known. I could smell it in you. If I were you, I’d leave this place. You have lied to us and we won’t forget it.’ ”
Trap (9781476793177) Page 5