Together

by Ann Arnold

  When the first Jewish high holidays came around, Sala Schonwetter went to synagogue. Sometime during the blowing of the ram’s horn, Sala found her way back to God, and perhaps, in her own way, found a way to forgive herself for having to deny who and what she was so many times in order to keep her family alive. She kept Kosher the rest of her life, and never tasted bacon again.

  Once a week, my grandmother would take a bus to Brzostek on Wednesdays, to visit the farmer's market, where she would buy meat, eggs and other staples. The prices were much cheaper there. She was also able to connect with her family in America. She had three sisters and a brother that had left Poland long before the war started. After the cease fire they wrote a letter to Brzostek, desperately looking for survivors. She received their letter and was able to reconnect with the only family members she had left.

  The trips to Brzostek also allowed her to begin selling off her land. She had no money, and her only assets were her home and property. After giving Antony one of the houses she owned and some land, she then began slowly selling off parts of the rest of the vast farmland. Eventually, she sold her old house, since it was no longer her home. The family that bought the house still own it today. She was able to make a little money this way. In order to raise further sums, Sala began to buy and sell American dollars on the black market. She would always find a way to support her children. In Tarnow, she soon met up with some other familiar faces, Romek and Fish.

  Romek never really gave up his rowdy, randy, and thieving ways. Although it helped him survive the war, he eventually got himself in trouble and ended up in jail. He escaped once but was recaptured and eventually died in prison.

  As for Fish, he had found only one survivor in his own family, despite searching far and wide. Solomon Katzbach was his brother-in-law, the only one to survive through the war. Solomon and Sala healed each other of their grief, and they were eventually married in 1947. Since America closed its borders to Polish refugees due to the Russian influence, they managed to emigrate to Israel in 1957, where Sala hoped they would be safe. They were together until the day he died in 1968. Sala never remarried again.

  Manek, my father, still had wandering feet, though, and eventually made his way to America.

  Fish confessed finally what had happened the night of the raid from the police that cost Ignash his life. Ignash had been wounded, and they tried to carry him to safety. The police were relentless, though. Afraid of being caught, recognizing Ignash was mortally wounded, Romek put him out of his misery.

  As I grew up, I never truly considered the dramatic turn my father’s childhood had taken. Going from the cherished son of a successful landowner to a hunted boy who was forced to live in a hole in the floor of a pig sty, is a journey that overwhelms my imagination, so I can’t imagine how someone who doesn’t know him personally might feel.

  Only after I had children myself did I understand parts of the story all the way down in my soul. My grandmother’s courage, strength and perseverance will always stand as an example of the superhero-like qualities that can be found in a mother’s love. She swore to her husband she would keep them together. She kept her word. In Poland, where most Jews did not live through the war, and many died in the turmoil and violence that followed the war, Sala Schonwetter not only got both of their children through it, she lived to see her grandchildren and great-grandchildren grow up both in the country of the free and the brave and the country promised to her people by God.

  I believe Manek took deeply to heart the advice given to him in the forest by Fish and Romek and by Bronca’s husband. He found a woman who was both beautiful and could make one amazing bowl of borscht. My mother is all of those things and more.

  He did not return to Poland again until 1993. My father, mother, sister and I went on a family trip. It was a moving experience to witness firsthand the places that I had heard so much about. But as special as that trip was, our next trip to Poland in 2009 was life-changing.

  My whole life, I had been searching for a meaning, for someone to give me a reason as to why this happened. It wasn’t fair! I was deprived of my family, and more important, my father and aunt were deprived of the innocence of childhood, almost deprived of a childhood at all. I realize there is no answer, but in the end there is a lesson. No matter how dark things may seem, there will always be light. Sala was able to see the light, and in 2009, so were we.

  A few years before, Jonathan Weber, a religious studies professor in England whose family immigrated to England from Brzostek in the late 1800s, petitioned the state of Poland, the town, and the head of the Rabbinical College of Rabbis to reinstate the Jewish cemetery in Brzostek. After many years the head rabbi of Poland agreed, and a massive undertaking was begun. The cemetery was destroyed in 1942 and therefore prior to June 2009 all had that remained was an empty lot of land. Professor Weber took it upon himself to reach out to the mayor and the priest of Brzostek to help him rebuild a sacred site.

  Amazingly, we found out, the entire community got behind this project. When the town heard about what was happening, the people of Brzostek realized its importance and rallied to help, finding headstones that had been used for masonry work or finding them in junkyards. By the time the cemetery was ready to be unveiled, the people of Brzostek had found over thirty original headstones from the cemetery. Amazingly, one of the matzevahs (head stones) that was returned was that of my great-grandfather, Fischel Schonwetter.

  The day of the opening was a day I will never forget. None of us knew what to expect. Honestly, we were thinking it would be a nice little ceremony, with a few dozen people.

  First, we congregated at Town Hall, which also housed the jail, the very same one my grandfather refused to escape from, to unveil a memorial plaque that was hung outside the building. This ceremony was attended by about 20 foreigners that had some connection to the cemetery, along with about 30 townspeople, including the mayor and local priest. We were surprised, at this point, that so many local people had come out, showing they cared.

  The plaque reads:

  IN MEMORY OF THE JEWISH COMMUNITY OF BRZOSTEK ITS RABBIS, TEACHERS, SHOPKEEPERS AND ARTISANS AND ALL FAMILIES AND IN MEMORY OF 500 JEWISH MEN, WOMEN AND CHILDREN OF BRZOSTEK MURDERED IN 1942 IN THE PODZAMCZE FOREST, IN THE BEZEC DEATH CAMP AND OTHER UNKOWN PLACES.

  After this small ceremony, we walked five minutes down the road. As we turned the final corner, I was shocked by what I saw.

  Hundreds of people from the community, both young and old, came to attend and witness what, to me, was a very emotional and historic moment. All of us were speechless. We could not fathom that so many townspeople had taken the time on this morning to come and witness this event. Tents and chairs were set up for people to sit on, but there was not enough for everyone. The first few rows had been left empty for the “VIP’s”—how funny that my father and his sister were now being welcomed as a VIP. The turn of events was totally unbelievable.

  Speeches were made by many, including my father and aunt. During my father’s speech, he recounted some of the stories you have just read. I heard people behind me that made comments, as they remembered the family names of some of the people that had saved my father. Zosia Dziedzic, whose family saved so many Jews, including my family, attended the ceremony. My father does not cry, ever, but he got choked up when he started to talk about his mother. The sun was shining and there was not a cloud in the sky. It was as if my grandparents were looking down on us from above, with the best view of all.

  After the speeches, prayers and blessings were recited, the shofar was blown and we proceeded to the gates of the cemetery. We had erected a tombstone in memory of my grandfather, here in this cemetery.

  In the Jewish religion, when someone dies, the family recites a prayer (like a blessing for the dead) called Kaddish. It meant the world to me to hear Kaddish being said for my grandfather, and to know that he had received a final place of rest at last. Astoundingly enough, three years later the mass grave he was killed in was uncov
ered. An anonymous party marked it with an etched tombstone—another remarkable example of true goodness.

  I approached the mayor after the service and thanked him for giving my grandfather a final resting place and providing me with a place that I can bring my children. I will never forget his response: “You don’t need to thank me. It was the right thing to do, the only thing to do.” I hate to admit that I kept thinking, these people are really doing this for what? What are they getting out of it?

  Following this very emotional afternoon, the crowd left the cemetery and was invited to attend an assembly put together by the students of the high school. They had buses for all of us visitors to take us the short distance. When we got to the school, the site was astounding.

  The children and their families had used the internet to research authentic Jewish recipes and cooked homemade Jewish and Polish dishes for us, in a buffet that was almost 20 feet long. They also prepared kosher meals for those that were observant. After we indulged in some delicious food, we sat down to hear the concert that they had prepared. These Polish children had learned and sang Hebrew Jewish songs, like “Shalom Aleichem” and “Hava Nagila,” and according to my aunt, who lives in Israel, they sang it better than most Israelis. We learned that the school has now incorporated into their high school curriculum Jewish studies, and Professor Weber established an annual scholarship for students. You have to remember, not one Jewish person has lived in this town since 1942. To know that the future generations will learn about the real history of their town, their country and the many people that no longer live there makes me feel that there is still hope and that the hell that my father, aunt, grandmother and millions of other Jews experienced will not be forgotten.

  As Jews we know how important and fragile our heritage is, and as children of holocaust survivors, we cannot help but feel cheated for not having the opportunity to know our lost family. But to know that others understand this as well has truly restored my faith in humankind. We always preach, “Never Forget,” and it is heartwarming to know that our ancestral community takes this very seriously. I hope we can all learn from their example. In a way I see this as closure for my father, and I hope that it can be the beginning of a compassionate and understanding journey that other towns and communities will venture upon.

  This book was written for my own great grandchildren and all those grandchildren who were not as blessed as I was to hear these kinds of stories from Sala’s lips. I hope you find your own sense of honor as my grandfather did when he refused to continue his life at the cost of another. I pray you are like Manek and Zosia, and have a mother who has the strength, will and ingenuity of Sala.

  And if you don’t have one, I hope you are one to another.

  When I was younger, I used to write a little poetry. I recently looked back at some of the works I had done, and found this piece I wrote during my teenage years. I hope you all take it to heart and share this story:

  Those of you who feel you are not affected, are affected the most

  Those of you who feel it did not happen to you, will experience it the most

  Those of you who don’t want to remember, will have the most terrifying nightmares

  Those of you who think it never happened, will live through it again.

  They survived because they stayed TOGETHER. On the bottom row, starting from left to right, is Zosia Schonwetter, Romek, Sala Schonwetter, Manek Schonwetter and Fish. Right above Sala in the middle, with light hair, is Zosia Dziedzic, the woman who helped, along with her family, to save so many.

  From Left to Right – Zosia Schonwetter, Sala Schonwetter, Solomon Katzbach, Manek Schonwetter – Post War in Tarnow

  Manek and Zosia Schonwetter 1937

  Manek and Zosia Schonwetter, Poland 2009

  Ann S. Arnold

  I never intended on being a writer. I realize how controversial that statement is, but it's true. The only footsteps I ever wanted to follow was my father, Mark Schonwetter’s, right into the jewelry business. Writing seemed far beyond my scope of experience, though I have always loved to read, and my secret desire was to do just this. We have entered the time period where the true witnesses and victims of the Holocaust are dying, so we, as a society, are losing a vital source of truth. My family's experience during the war, the fortitude of my grandmother Sala and the strength of my father, is a treasured legacy. I was blessed to be given this legacy, and learn its lessons throughout my formative years. Now I want to share it with the world.