Memory
is Our Home
by Suzanna Eibuszyc
History is more than numbers, more than
the story of how one war started on such and such a date and how it ended on a
different date.
History is about what a child feels
growing up in the poverty of Post World War I Poland. It is about what it is like to feel fear the
day the Germans invaded Poland in 1939.
History is about what it means to stand on a street and know that this
street will take you to a concentration camp from which you may never
return. History is about how one woman
survives the return to her home after a war that has left her country in the
hands of the Soviet Communists.
This is the history that Suzanna
Eibuszyc shares with us in her moving book Memory
is Our Home. Combining excerpts from
her mother’s diary with her own memories of stories her mother shared with her,
Ms. Eibuszyc has created a work that will move every reader with the truth of
what those years between 1917 and 1969 were like.
Ms. Eisbuszyc has allowed me to reprint
three short excerpts from her book.
The first is from her introduction; the
second is from her mother’s memoir of the period and describes the way she fled
Warsaw soon after the German invasion; the third describes Ms. Eisbuszyc’s
response to her mother’s memoir and her experiences.
Introduction: To be a “memorial candle”
It is said that
in every survivor’s family, one child is unconsciously chosen to be a “memorial
candle,” to carry on the mourning and dedicate his or her life to the memory of
the Shoah. That child takes part in the parents’ emotional world, assumes the
family burden and becomes the link between the past and the future. I realize
now that my mother chose me, and that in turn, I chose my daughter to be that
memorial candle.
As far back as I can remember, my mother
shared her stories with me. Her tales filled me with overwhelming sadness, but
also brought color to our drab existence in the southwestern corner of
Communist Poland. I have never seen any photographs
that connected my mother to the extended family she so often talked about. I
was frightened, confused, and ashamed, part of me did not believe my mother. The
source of my sadness, which I can’t shake even today, is that I wish I had been a wiser child, but instead I retreated, I
built a wall around me and protected myself. I did not know how to reconcile
the overwhelmingly sad stories my mother was transmitting to me. In order for my child’s mind to resolve something I could
not comprehend, I decided that my mother had to have made those people up, that
those people had never existed. Today I keep
asking myself over and over how I could have been so unwise.
Her
Mother’s Story of Fleeing Warsaw
Finally, the day I had been planning and
waiting for arrived. On November 7th, 1939, Russia had not entered Warsaw as we
expected. I felt it was time to leave. I ran home, packed a few things, and
went to Anja to say good-bye. Anja, once a strong voice behind the Warsaw
workers, still had a fighting spark in her eyes. She was waiting for her
husband Szymon and pacing the room when I came in. She held one baby in her
arms while the other hung onto her skirt. I could see she was worried for her
children and was doing her best not to show it. In a firm voice, she told me to
stay safe and that we would see each other again soon.
It was very difficult for me to leave my
family. I was one of thousands of young people who were willing to leave everything
until the German occupation was over. Those with
commitments, especially those with children felt it was best to stay. I tried to convince my siblings to come with
me, but my efforts were in vain. They were so filled with hope that any day the
English or the Russians would come to liberate Poland.
After seeing Anja, I met Sala with her
children. Sala looked terrible. She was wrapped in a black satin housecoat, the
same one she had been wearing when her building caught fire. She was dirty and
her hair was uncombed. Her face was
swollen and her eyes were red from crying. She kept repeating
that she knew we would never see each other again. Her two boys, five and three
years old, were practically naked and were barefoot in November.
Before the occupation, the salon had
been finally thriving. Sala was even able to buy beautiful gold rings for her
fingers. Her children always had extra pairs of shoes and sets of clothing. It
was all destroyed when the bomb fell on her building.
Through my tears, I could only manage to
say: “I promise, we will see each other again soon.” This picture of my sister
with her two boys, barefoot in the winter that last time is a haunting memory
for me. It is still with me today.
Running away from Warsaw and from my family was the
most difficult thing I have ever done. It is difficult to relay today how
strong my fear of the Nazis was. I had no idea
what racial genocide was, or that the Holocaust was about to be unleashed
against Europe’s Jews by Nazi Germany. My three older siblings had five
beautiful children. I loved playing with them and I did so every chance I had.
I will never know what extraordinary people they would have grown up to be and
what contributions to our society they would have made. After the war, I
searched for them in vain.
I often think back to how they were when
I left Warsaw that November. Adek’s little girl Bluma was five years old in
1939. She was a precocious little girl who was always attached to her mother.
Adored by her maternal grandmother, she was always dressed in the latest style.
Bluma had big dark eyes and light hair that fell in loose curls on her
shoulders. A shiny, white bow was always tied to her hair right in the middle
of her head. She would put her small hand in mine and let me take her for our
weekly walk. On those walks I told her about my favorite Maria Konopnicka fairytale but I never told her that Marysia was an
orphan. Bluma was a sensitive child. I did not want to make her sad.
Though we had almost lost him from
illness, Sala’s son Piniek grew up to be a healthy five-year-old boy. An
independent child, he reminded me so much of his father Moniek. We also had our
weekly walks in the park. Piniek asked a thousand questions, and I was expected
to have an answer for every one of them. Gutek took after his mother, always
smiling and content. He had dark eyes and a dark head of curls.
Anja’s son Pinkus was three when I left
Warsaw. We were best friends. I got to spend the most time with him because of
Anja’s dangerous second pregnancy. He loved for me to read to him at bedtime.
When I thought he was asleep and closed the book, he would open his eyes and
say, “one more story Ciocia, aunt
Roma please.” I never refused. His little sister, also named Bluma, was only
three months old when I said good-bye to my Anja.
My final farewell was to my Adek. I
handed over to him my most precious possession, a box filled with diplomas, a
few of my favorite books and an album with photographs. I told him to take care
of it. My parting words were, “I will
see you in a few weeks.”
At the time, England had promised
to help Poland fight the Nazi invasion. We had also heard rumors about how the
Russians were going to occupy more Polish territories. All of this gave me hope
that Poland would soon be rid of the Nazis and I would return home to my
family. Besides some clothes and food that I could carry, I left everything
behind.
At the last minute, Pola decided to
come with me. I told her to pack up fast. Sevek had also decided to join us.
The three of us left to meet up with my girlfriends Reginka and Hanka and
another last minute friend, Janek. Our group of six left Warsaw on the morning
of November 8, 1939, with a mixture of fear and optimism.
Suzanna
Eibuszyc’s Response to her Mother’s Memoir
My mother’s accounts of her life in
Warsaw and surviving in Russia and Uzbekistan had a deep impact on my
imagination.
Overwhelmed, I looked for ways to feel safe. I focused my
attention on what I perceived to be my mother’s incredible adventure in Russia.
I tried to picture my mother living in exotic, interesting places: the
beautiful cities of Saratov and Moscow where she even experienced romance and
love. While in Uzbekistan, she lived in the desert, under a hot sun and she ate
exotic food. I never allowed myself to see her hungry or sick. My mother was
heroic and strong, splendid and beautiful in her tailored black coat. Her
stories influenced the choices I made when I left home.
Strangely, I found
comfort in unfamiliar and far-off places. Choosing to study ancient and present
cultures was like revisiting the landscape of my childhood. I got to work under
the hot sun, live in a tent, ride a camel and, like my mother did in Uzbekistan
eat exotic food. I excavated in the desert at Tel Beer-Sheva, Israel. I
observed the lives of Arab men and women, evoking my mother’s stories of
strange lands. I remembered that when I was a child all I ever wanted was to
follow in my mother’s footsteps and follow in her adventure. I was my mother’s
daughter. I inherited her spirit. We saw
the world through the same set of eyes.
I was aware of an overwhelming fear of putting down roots, perhaps not
wanting to have them severed in the same way my mother and her generation
had.
Traveling had always put me in touch
with my mother’s strengths and temporarily wiped out the negative voices that
played in my mind. While on the road, surrounded by unusual, new places, I was
happy and at home. I went back to communist Poland, still haunted by my
memories of our departure, my mother’s inconsolable crying. I had to return. I
was looking for something, a piece of me I had lost or perhaps left behind. I
heard my father calling me back to the small, overgrown Jewish cemetery in
Klodzko, where he was laid to rest. Like
my mother, I too had succumbed to the notion that Poland was my homeland, now
the ghosts of my childhood were clamoring for attention.
___________________
Excerpted from the book Suzanna Eibuszyc’s Memory is Our Home, published by the academic
press Ibidem-Verlag, ISBNs EU edition: 978 3 8382 0682 0, US edition: 978 3
8382 0702 5" spring 2015.
Content
copyright 2014. Suzanna Eibuszyc.
All rights reserved.
