Eccentricities

Nadal arranging his water bottles. Photo grabbed from https://www.tennislifemag.com/rafas-rituals-so-much-to-do-before-he-can-play/

Gary was watching tennis on television the other day. Rafael Nadal was playing. Aside from the fact that he is one of the best tennis players of all time, Nadal is interesting because he offers a host of ritualistic behaviors that are far beyond any other athlete I am aware of. All people have quirks and athletes typically have superstitions. Some pitchers won’t step on a baseline when leaving the mound to return to the dugout. Others have pregame routines that they try not to vary. Rafa is in a class by himself. From how he arranges his water bottles to the predictability of his sequence before he serves, he clearly has quirks. Gary noted when Nadal’s game was over and it was time to change sides, Nadal walked toward the net and made a sharp right turn to go to his chair – not your ordinary approach. These behaviors could be amusing little eccentricities. Or they could represent a disorder that interferes with his life. I hope it is the former or something in between that doesn’t create problems for him.

It is kind of funny that Gary was commenting on Nadal’s routines given that he is a creature of habit himself. I guess we all are to varying degrees. Gary’s habits are harmless and amusing (to me). His process for cleaning his glasses is a whole production – if he tells me he needs to clean them before we leave the house, I know I have plenty of time to sit down and read the newspaper. Not surprisingly, his glasses are far cleaner than mine. Once in a while I will ask him to give my lenses his special treatment. I am amazed at the difference – he clearly knows what he is doing.

I walk with a friend who used to need to circle the stop sign instead of just reversing course when we got to the end of the block. Snow could be piled up knee deep on the side of the road, but the walk didn’t feel right to her if she hadn’t done that. I remember when she decided she didn’t need to do that anymore. Humans are so interesting.

These rituals must give us some comfort, some control, or we wouldn’t do them. I have routines, too, though I can’t say I see them as quite so specific or engrained. I get up in the morning and do things in the same order – I think – go to the bathroom (TMI?), wash hands, brush teeth, take meds, make the bed, get dressed, head downstairs. I continue the process by taking my little hotplate out and plugging it in (a gift from Dan and Beth because they know I like my coffee to stay hot), pour my coffee, prepare my breakfast, open my computer and start with the New York Times Spelling Bee, then move on to the crossword puzzle and end with the mini puzzle. Next up, I clean the kitchen – most nights I have left the dinner dishes to be done in the morning. Then I start my day – up to my office to write, read and research. I’m okay, though, if my routine has to change – if I have an appointment, or if Gary hasn’t made the coffee that morning or whatever comes up. The routine gives some structure and a beginning to my day, but I am not married to it. It doesn’t cause me anxiety to do it differently.

Are there people who specifically choose not to have a routine? I imagine that there must be though I don’t think I know many. I wonder what that would feel like. From what I hear from friends, most are pretty devoted to their schedules.

I was taking my brother home from the hospital after his hip replacement surgery a couple of years ago. The nurse was going over the discharge instructions. Mark asked about climbing the stairs to his bedroom. They asked how many steps it would be. “15,” he replied with certainty (I could be remembering the wrong number, but the number isn’t the point). I looked at him, “You know the number of steps off the top of your head?” He looked at me quizzically. “Of course.” Later when we were in the car, I asked him about that. He responded, “Don’t you count the steps when you go upstairs in your house?”  “No, I have no idea how many it is.” Apparently, Mark counts things – and not just the typical things that we all count (like reps in the gym). My brother has his oddities, too.

You never know what might be going on in another person’s head. Well, maybe that isn’t entirely true. I know the thoughts in mine are quite different from my brother. I might be replaying my last conversation with my son or composing my next blog post while Mark might be constructing his all-time Yankee batting order, putting his love of numbers to good, productive use, or he might be thinking about how he might next tease me. Either of those thought processes are totally alien to me.

To the extent that we find our partner’s, family members’ and friends’ little quirks and eccentricities charming, amusing or at least not annoying, it works. When it drives us crazy or when it gets in the way of their functioning, then it is another story.

Bittersweet

I know I have used the word bittersweet quite often on the blog. Lately it just seems to fit. This past week was no exception. It featured wide swings – from the deep satisfaction of connecting in person (!!!) with long-time friends (who were fully vaccinated) to extreme anxiety about Mom’s health and back to marveling at the wonder of a toddler. It has been a roller coaster ride.

I accompanied Mom for pre-op testing a week ago in New Jersey. It went smoothly, though, it is increasingly evident that any exertion takes a great deal out of her. I wish we had a better understanding of what is happening. I feel like there should be an answer – and with that some kind of fix so that her quality of life is improved. We continue to search but so far, we have not come up with anything. This has been going on since last August!

On Friday I brought her in for a procedure that was meant to enlighten us – at least with regard to the condition of her heart. In a strange way I hoped that the doctor would find something wrongthat he could address. He didn’t. Her heart is good – which should have been excellent news, and it does bring some comfort. The search continues for an explanation for her extreme fatigue and shortness of breath.

In between Monday’s testing and Friday’s procedure, I visited with family and friends who live in the New York City area. My son came into the city for the first time in over a year for work. He visited with me before his scheduled meeting. I gave him a bagel with cream cheese. He took a bite and exclaimed, “Jesus, that is so good!” He lives in Connecticut and gets bagels, but there are bagels and there are bagels. New York City may be struggling, but you can still get fabulous bagels on the Upper West Side.

Though things are far from normal, some activities are returning in new ways. A Vietnamese restaurant on Amsterdam Avenue set up some tables on the sidewalk enclosed in individual plastic bubbles. The pod was open on one side.  Steven, our friendship began when I was 14 or 47 short years ago, and I were enjoying our lunch when it started to drizzle, then the sky opened up. The waiter pulled down the plastic sheeting and zipped us in. We were protected from the elements and continued eating our delicious meal. When the rain stopped, the panel was unzipped and we emerged into breezy sunshine, a blue sky to the north but more ominous clouds moving in from the south. It was one of those fast-changing weather days. Spring is in full swing in NYC.

I consumed quite a bit of Asian food during my time in the city – all of it outstanding. Isn’t it great to share a meal with people you love? Another afternoon I met Aunt Clair at a Japanese restaurant. Despite her own serious health challenges, we were able to talk about family history and current events while digging into our bento boxes. I learned more about my Dad and clarified some things, some of which will likely make its way into a future blog post.

Late that afternoon I fought traffic on the Cross Bronx Expressway to meet another childhood friend – I know Deborah since I was four years old. Anyone who has lived in the New York area has to know the Cross Bronx is infamous – it can be 3 a.m. and traffic can be at a standstill. But Waze, the navigation app that scans for the best route, told me repeatedly, “You are still on the fastest route,” as I sat incredulously staring at the unmoving tractor trailer in front of me. The good news was that I was listening to NPR when the verdict was read in the Chauvin trial. What a relief – on so many levels! In addition to finally providing some accountability and a measure of justice, I hate to think what would have happened if a different verdict had been rendered.

I met Deborah for dinner in Port Washington on Long Island. Deborah lives in another part of the Island but suggested a spot that was more convenient for me to travel to. Another excellent Asian restaurant. I realized that I was only minutes from where my cousins grew up. After the meal, since the days are now so much longer, there was still some daylight. I plugged their old address into the GPS. It was only a five minute ride. The terrain was familiar and foreign at the same time. The lovely homes, tree-lined, curving streets and lush lawns were as I remembered. The house itself was quite different. The wood rail fence and bushes that lined the property were gone. The siding was a different color. But it brought back many memories of our visits. So much has changed. My aunt and uncle passed away – as have so many other family members. My cousins live in Massachusetts and Florida respectively. I took a picture and texted it to them. They commented on the changes they noticed. More evidence of the bittersweet nature of life.

Mom needed to be at the hospital at 6:30 a.m. on Friday. I drove out to New Jersey Thursday night and stayed with my brother and sister-in-law, they live about 15 minutes from Mom. Somehow when you know you are getting up at 5:00 a.m. it is impossible to get restful sleep. I woke up multiple times to check the clock, relieved to find that I still had more time. But at 4:30 I gave up. Mom was ready when I arrived at 6:00. We saw the sun rise as we drove east to the hospital.

The procedure took less time than expected and I was thankful that she had made it through it, even though I wished there was something they could have fixed that would improve her situation. Given that she is 87 and experiencing shortness of breath, I was acutely aware of the risks of the procedure. At least she had come through it.

She was admitted to the hospital because of a complication with her heart rhythm. I went to see her in her room. Her color was actually better than it had been. She was in good spirits. Assuming that she was stable, I planned to return home that afternoon. Months earlier the weekend of April 24th was chosen by our children to celebrate my husband’s birthday. Since Covid made going to a Met game an uncomfortable proposition, the kids came up with the idea of recreating the experience in our backyard. They would come to Albany and we would all watch the game together on Saturday afternoon.

Fortunately, Mom was stable, so after staying with her for a couple of hours, I drove home. The celebratory plans were a surprise to Gary. He didn’t know the kids were coming. I arrived home at 3:30 in the afternoon. Leah and Ben followed about 20 minutes later. Gary worked a bit later than usual, proving that he had no idea about the surprise. He saw Leah’s car in the driveway and was delighted. He came in all smiles. It only got better from there.

A couple of hours later, there was a knock at the door. Our almost 3 year old granddaughter stood smiling on the porch (don’t worry she wasn’t alone, her mother and father accompanied her). I reached out my arms and she lifted hers. I brought her into the family room where Gary was on the phone with a patient. His jaw dropped. I heard him say, “Okay, gotta go. Good night, Mr. Smith.” Fortunately, he had communicated the necessary medical information so though he ended the conversation abruptly, he was in fact done. He stood up and took her from me. So began the weekend.

Though we had a great time with the kids, my mom alternately sounded horrible on the phone (struggling to breathe and speak), then a bit better, then like herself, then horrible again. I was worried. I thought about whether I should go back down to the hospital, but what could I accomplish? The kids had gone to great effort. They set up a screen against the house so we could watch the Met game. They brought crackerjacks, peanuts, beer and sandwiches. They decorated with Met paraphernalia. The weather even cooperated, sadly, the Mets didn’t. They lost 7-1. We all agreed that was as it should be in a way, we’ve been to many losses at Shea and Citifield. Happily, we watched the game (indoors) the night before when Jacob DeGrom pitched a masterpiece.  

Our own version of the 7th inning stretch

Sunday morning, I blew bubbles with our granddaughter in our backyard. It delighted both of us. Something about watching the delicate orbs, rainbows shimmering on their surface, illuminated by the sun as they drifted into nothingness seemed appropriate. The fleeting nature of it, of everything, struck me. At the same time, her squeals of laughter as she chased them reminded me of the whimsy of life. I need to go with it, accept the bittersweet, as hard as that is.

Remembering Ray

by Barbara Spilken

Editor’s Note: Today’s post is written by my aunt, Barbara Spilken. It is about my grandmother, Nana. I have written many blog posts about her. Thank you, Barbara, for sharing your tribute to her. The photos come from the Spilken family collection.

I woke up in tears this morning. April 18, 2021 marks 50 years since my mother-in-law’s death. Not many people are fortunate enough to find inspiration to last that many years from anyone much less their mother-in-law. Most in-law relationships, if we are to believe Hollywood, are strained at best. I was blessed with a different reality.

Though I only knew Ray (Rachel Spilken) for three years before her untimely death, she shaped how I live my life and the values I strive to uphold. I was 18 years old when I first met her.

Ray was the sun to family and friends that orbited her. She welcomed people to her home, regardless of their station in life or if they had a disability or lived on the margins of society. My family of origin did not offer such a generous and loving atmosphere. I drank in this alternative and vowed to try to live her values.

Whether I have accomplished that is for others to say. I believe Ray’s legacy is going strong in our family. Her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren are caring human beings, loving their families, involved in philanthropy, each trying to make the world a better place in their own way.

Everyday I wake up to see Ray’s large, beautiful mahogany dining room table in my house. It is a reminder to gather those we love, to share our burdens and our celebrations, to break bread as often as we can  –  to stay connected to each other.

I was welcomed by my husband, Terry, into his world. His mother extended to me every kindness and taught me these values. I hope I have done and continue to do them honor.

Terry and Ray in 1969

This year in which we have sustained many losses has inevitably led me to think about the meaning of life, I am comforted by my reflections on Ray. Her legacy of love and care continues to ripple through the generations that have followed. What more can one hope for?

At my wedding – January 10, 1971

The Cycle of Life

I just re-read last week’s blog post. This week’s could be quite similar. In this time of coronavirus, one day doesn’t vary much from another and that adds up to a sameness week to week. There were some differences. The prime one being I didn’t get to cuddle and play with my granddaughter. Oh well. I did get to babysit my great-nephew. He is almost 15 months old and fascinated by cars, trucks and buses. Fortunately, his house has a big picture window in the living room that looks out on a busy thoroughfare. We watched red cars and blue cars and yellow buses go by for quite some time.

One of the extraordinary things that is happening in our family is that a new generation is emerging. Aside from my granddaughter, I now have five great-nephews! The newest arrived less than two weeks ago, on March 24th. The oldest will be four in August. Four of them have the last name Brody. My father’s name carries on! So as not to be left out, the most recent arrival was given the first name Brody! When I was young Brody was not a first name (though I think both of my brothers were regularly called Brody by friends), now it is, and we are all delighted. It will be quite something when the five of them get together! Mass confusion might ensue, but what fun!

As we are at the beginning of a new season, a season of rebirth, I am acutely aware of the cycle of life. We are greeting new family members; we have said goodbye to others. No matter how long a life they have been granted, it doesn’t feel long enough. At the same time, we don’t want to see them suffer. There is a time to die. It is all so bittersweet. It is the way of the world.

Yesterday, the final day of Passover, is a day when Yizkor is recited. Yizkor translates as ‘may He (God) remember;’ it is a memorial service that is conducted four times throughout the year. In Judaism we commemorate the anniversary of a parent’s (and other immediate family members) death (the yahrzeit) by lighting a candle. We also participate in Yizkor and light a candle then too. Gary is not yet comfortable attending services in person, so he livestreamed from a New York City synagogue. Throughout the year we have done that and found it to be surprisingly meaningful.

Of course, our thoughts of David, and my father, and others who have died, are not limited to those occasions. I asked Gary yesterday what brings his dad to mind. The list was long – from mundane things like having a nice stretch of weather to elections in Israel – all things he would share on his daily phone call with him. We agreed that the most painful part of the loss is the finality of it. Many believe that we will be reunited with our loved ones when we ourselves die. I imagine that is a very comforting thought. I can’t say I have that faith. Instead, I comfort myself with memories that have become part of me, lessons that I was taught, the love that I was given and still carry with me. It isn’t the same as having their physical presence, but it is something – something significant. My father and my grandparents are part of my DNA and are, in turn, part of my children.

I marvel at our family’s the next generation. I will share the memories, the lessons and love and hope that they carry it forward.

I’m Tired

I don’t have a blog post prepared so I am winging it. The past week was a tiring one. It started off with a dental appointment to put a crown on a tooth that had previously had root canal. The process of preparing the crown left my mouth sore. I don’t know about you, but I don’t enjoy when they insert the tray with the gooey stuff in my mouth to make an impression of my teeth. I remind myself to breathe so I don’t gag. I prefer not to have someone putting their hands in there to drill either- the vibrations cause my ears and sinuses to ache. Invariably my jaw is sore afterwards. It took a couple of days for that to settle down. Great start to the week.

Then I went down to New Jersey to accompany my mom to her pulmonologist appointment. I wanted to go (Mom, don’t feel guilty!!). I don’t mind a road trip. I listen to podcasts, NPR and music. As long as traffic isn’t bad, I’m good. I wanted to be there to hear directly what the doctor said, to support Mom and to spend some time with her. The issue is that the visit to the doctor was not great. I’m not going to go into details, but we left with more questions that we arrived with. Mom is doing okay, but not as good as we would like and frankly, I worry about her. (Mom, don’t feel guilty!!) It is hard being 3.5 hours away.

That night, after the unsettling appointment, I had a zoom bookclub. I signed up for an offering from my local library – the club meets virtually to discuss 7 Pulitzer Prize winning novels that explore the American experience. The assignment for this meeting was Humboldt’s Gift by Saul Bellow. I’m not going to digress too far on this, it could merit its own blog post, but I would describe the read as a slog. Reading a book should not be a slog. I fought through it, at least in part out of respect for my fellow bookclubbers. The facilitator of the session, who I like very much, opened the meeting by confessing that he couldn’t get through it! Part of me regretted that I had put in the effort, but, in fact, I’m glad I did. It wasn’t great timing in that I had other things to do, but I did get something out of the experience. One thing I learned: I will not read another Saul Bellow novel. I read one in college, Herzog, which I also remember as a painful experience. I think two is quite sufficient for my lifetime. I may write more about Mr. Bellow’s novel another time. I enjoyed our discussion which centered on whether we feel an obligation to finish a book we have started. What do you think?

The week proceeded with preparations for Passover. Last year we did a virtual seder which worked out pretty well, all things considered, but certainly isn’t what we prefer. This year, since Gary and I are fully vaccinated, our children came and we zoomed with my husband’s sisters. I love having a full house. I loved having Leah, Ben, Dan, Beth and our granddaughter here.

Our granddaughter woke up at 4:15 a.m. Saturday morning. I didn’t want her to wake her parents – she was starting to cry and we had the monitor in our bedroom – so I went in to her. She settled quickly. I didn’t. I got back into bed and thought about everything I needed to do. About 6:00 a.m. I fell back to sleep. Our granddaughter woke up at 6:15 a.m. Fortunately, Gary was happy to get her and I fell back to sleep for another hour and a half. Despite that I got up not feeling particularly well rested. A small price to pay, but as I get older it gets harder to rebound. I thought to myself, “I don’t want to be 61!” as I brushed my teeth. Of course it is better than the alternative.

During the weekend we laughed, we chatted, we prepared the seder meal (three of us combined efforts to make the turkey and it paid off), we ate multiple meals actually. We played Trivial Pursuit. My granddaughter not only chose me to put her to bed both nights, but said, “Nana, I love you.” Nothing is better than that. I will treasure the memories and look forward to the next time we get to be together.

Now it is Monday morning. I don’t have a blog post prepared. But that’s okay.

Passover bouquet on my dining room table

Lessons Learned

A visit with Paula and David in Florida

After spending the last few weeks going over Paula’s survival story, I am struck by so many things. From the mundane: I wonder if her enduring love of chocolate has anything to do with the comfort and pleasure it brought her when the Russian army shared the treats as the war was finally ending. She and her family must have felt some relief, there was light at the end of a very long, dark tunnel. Paula continues to crave chocolate and perhaps she finds comfort in it. Of course, she could simply like the taste.

I also think of the profound: how having her world turned upside down when she was just a child left her fearful for the rest of her life. She was able to take pleasure in life, she had loving relationships, but the cautiousness and the need to protect herself and those she loved was right at the surface. It was a huge price to pay as a child, an innocent.

I wonder how much of that reticence was who she was, even before the war. She described herself as an obedient child. She was likely shy before being thrust into the uncertainty and chaos that came with the Nazis. We will never know – she will never know – who she might have been, what she might have achieved. She was a smart girl with a sharp mind, good with numbers, a fast learner, quick to pick up languages. But she was growing up in a shtetl culture that didn’t encourage higher education for girls. I don’t know whether she felt that she hadn’t reached her potential or if she felt frustrated by her limited opportunities. Paula poured her energies into her family and they benefitted from that. I think her granddaughters feel an obligation to take up where she left off, to make the most of their opportunities and they have done just that. It is a blessing and a burden for them.

I can’t help but think of the many people, not just survivors of the Holocaust, but survivors of war crimes and oppression throughout history, who were and continue to be stifled. Not only is it a loss for that individual, but the world has been deprived. Paula and David were able to build constructive lives, so many others were not. Many were overcome by their sadness, their loss. We pay a huge price for humanity’s cruelty. Can’t we do better?

I think about the price she paid. About eight years ago we were visiting Paula and David in their condo in Florida. Paula was already on her Alzheimer’s journey, but she was still Paula. They didn’t need an aide yet. I sat at the kitchen table with her while Gary chatted with his Dad in the living room. Paula told me she was feeling troubled. I asked her what was on her mind.

“I keep wondering about my father,” she said.

Samuel had been killed by the Nazis more than 70 years before.

“What is it you are wondering about?”

She sighed, stirring her tea.

“I worry that he was buried alive,” she said.

I didn’t respond for a bit, taking it in, feeling so sad for her. Eventually I responded.

“I’m so sorry, Paula. That is an agonizing thought…but there is no reason to believe that’s what happened.” I said it almost as a question, wondering if she knew something she had not previously revealed. She mulled that over and shrugged.

I imagined her thinking about the story of the two men who came to Serniki, how they climbed out of the pit of corpses to escape. How could she not wonder?

“But what if he was alive?” she asked.

“We’ll never know…. I’m sorry.”

I knew I was out of my depth. I just wanted to comfort her but didn’t know how.

“But,” I continued, “I know you have good memories of your father. Let’s think about that.” I asked her about the stories he told her when she was a child. She didn’t mention her fear again, but I don’t imagine the thought left her.

Though the war took an extraordinary toll, Paula did reap the benefit of unexpected helpers, starting with the assistance provided by a Pole, Dimitrov Lacunyitz. I think about those Poles who stepped forward and those who collaborated and what made the difference. What pushed a person to choose to be on the right side of history? Unfortunately, in Poland today, there is a right-wing government which seems intent on whitewashing their history. They are making it increasingly difficult to acknowledge that there were collaborators. The mass executions could not have happened without local assistance. At the same time, we need to acknowledge those who overcame their fear and did the right thing. The Silberfarbs would not have survived without them. It is a tension that we in America face, as well. The impulse to ignore or sweep under the rug the ugliness in our history is strong, but we do that at our own peril. We all need to reckon with our past. We can’t only celebrate the heroism because it denies the experience, the reality of those who were mistreated.

I think about the importance of family. The Silberfarbs depended on each other; Lea was a tower of strength.  There were times when there were tensions between them, but the bond was stronger. Their extended family offered support through the ordeal in Serniki, too. They regularly sought shelter with cousins during the unrest in town. And, in the ultimate act of generosity, Uncle Nachum opened his home in Cuba to his wife’s sister-in-law and her children. He gave them a new start. My father-in-law, David, also got support from his family – they may not have been quite as warm and welcoming, but they made a new beginning possible. Where would we be without family?

I think about luck. While their survival was made possible by their own strength and ingenuity, luck was a critical element, too. When bombs fell, the Silberfarbs were spared. When Lea chose to go right instead of left in the woods, they avoided violence. When she knocked on a door begging for food, she wasn’t killed. Was that luck? Intuition? Fate? So many times, things could have gone differently. All of it had to fall into place for them to make it.

I think about faith. One might emerge from the ordeal with faith shattered or strengthened. My father-in-law believed God had spared him. That faith doesn’t come naturally to me, but understanding how meaningful it was to David, certainly gives me food for thought.

There are so many lessons to be learned by studying the Holocaust. I wish more people would take the time to learn.

Displaced

When World War II ended in Europe on May 8, 1945 most of the continent bore the scars of bombed out villages, millions dead and millions more displaced. Imagine resettling the entire population of New York City all at once. When the war ended that was the task. So many cities had been destroyed; millions needed to be resettled. Estimates of the number of displaced persons (DPs) vary wildly depending on who is included in that category: prisoners of war, concentration camp survivors, partisans, and refugees from places caught in the cross-fire flooded Europe. At the low end, 6.5 million people were displaced, at the high end 17 million. Lea, Bernard, Paula and Sofia Silberfarb were among them.

For some DPs, once the bullets stopped flying and the bombs stopped falling, they could go home and rebuild their lives. They could either reclaim their property (if it still existed) or start anew in their hometowns; they weren’t afraid to go back. In fact, by September of 1945, three-quarters of the refugees did go back to their country of origin. For others, including the Silberfarbs, going ‘home’ wasn’t an option. Serniki, reclaimed as part of the Soviet Union, held painful memories and they knew they were not welcome there. Their future lay elsewhere.

In order to establish order and begin the process of repatriating DPs, the Allies divided Germany and Austria into zones. Great Britain, France, the United States and Soviet Union each controlled sectors, and all but the Soviets set up camps to house the refugees. The USSR had a policy of expecting all its DPs to reintegrate into Soviet society, irrespective of their status as a former prisoner of war, a concentration camp survivor, or refugee and therefore no DP camps were set up in their zone. The other Allied countries utilized abandoned military barracks, hospitals, apartment buildings, private homes and other assorted structures to establish DP camps. In December of 1945 the American zone had 134, and by June of 1947, they had 416 sites. Great Britain had 272, while the French hosted 45.

An organization called Birchah (the Hebrew word for ‘flight’), which was a semi-clandestine Zionist network, helped Jewish survivors get to DP camps.  With their assistance the Silberfarbs left Pinsk and ended up in a camp in Ranshofen, Austria.

Ironically, Ranshofen was located near Brunau, Hitler’s birthplace. The DP camp was made up of brick buildings that were each two stories, with two two-bedroom apartments on each floor.  The Silberfarbs were assigned one bedroom in an apartment, and another family was assigned the other bedroom. The two families shared the common spaces (living room, kitchen and bathroom). Although the accommodations were not spacious, it was a welcome change from the instability of the prior four years. They had a roof over their head, shelter from the weather and food.

The other family assigned to the Silberfarb apartment included a man, Beryl Bakst, and his two adult children, David, who was 23, and Batya, who was 20, and her soon-to-be husband, Fishel. The families became close, sharing stories of their harrowing experiences. David was particularly taken with Paula, who despite being 9 years younger, was a good listener, sympathetic, smart, pretty and mature well beyond her years.

Paula and David in Ranshofen circa 1946/47

They were all in Ranshofen for the next two years before leaving on the next step of their journey. The Silberfarbs wanted to go to Palestine, as did Batya and Fishel. Beryl and David were trying to get to the United States. The paperwork to get visas and arrange travel was a bureaucratic nightmare that took patience and perseverance. In the meanwhile, Paula and David spent a lot of time together, as well as taking classes and participating in activities. David played in a volleyball tournament against other DP camp teams, which his team won.

One of the factors that determined which camp a refugee went to was where they wanted to resettle. For example, the best chance to immigrate to Palestine was from a DP camp in Italy. After some time at Ranshofen, Batya and Fishel went to Italy, since that was their goal. The Silberfarbs didn’t because they were still considering the option offered by family already settled in Cuba.

Immigrating to Palestine was very difficult and conditions in the Holy Land were challenging as the area tried to absorb survivors and build a new country in a hostile environment. In 1939 Great Britain, which exercised authority over the area, severely limited Jewish immigration. After the war, 69,000 survivors attempted illegal immigration, less than half were successful. Others were arrested and interned on Cyprus. Batya and Fishel were among those waylaid in Cyprus. In fact, their daughter, Rochelle, was born there. Once the state of Israel was established in 1948, immigration flowed more freely. Batya, Fishel and Rochelle finally made it to a Jewish homeland, and faced another war, the war for Israeli independence.

Meanwhile, intent on getting to America, Beryl and David went to another DP camp in Germany, one step closer to their goal. David and Paula agreed to correspond by letter. David told Paula that if she ended up going to Cuba, they would meet again. Paula held on to that thought.

Ranshofen was slated to close in 1948. The Silberfarbs had no choice but to move on. They went to another nearby DP camp. Lea, based on Bernie and Sofia’s wish to go to Israel, was still trying to make arrangements, but was not yet successful. She was also corresponding with her late husband’s family in Cuba. Two of Samuel’s sisters, Bushe and Mary, had settled in Havana with their respective husbands, Nachum and Solomon, before World War II.

Lea wrote to Bushe and Nachum, explaining her predicament. The children wanted to go to Israel, but she was unable to secure passage. Nachum, in response, wrote a heartfelt letter offering to sponsor them in coming to Cuba. He pointed out that life would be difficult in Israel, as a widowed mother without family to help. He suggested that they try life in Cuba. If they didn’t like it after a year, he would arrange immigration to Israel. He wrote that it would likely be easier at that point to immigrate, as post-war tensions eased, and the newly created State of Israel got on its feet. The Silberfarbs were touched by Nachum’s letter and generosity and were swayed by the soundness of his argument. They agreed to go to Havana.

During their family conversations about their plans, Paula kept silent. In her heart, she wanted to go to Cuba, thinking it was her chance to see David again. But, she didn’t think it was fair to try and influence the decision based on her burgeoning romance. She was very excited when the decision was made.

Meanwhile, the Silberfarbs bided their time at the new DP camp. Paula was back in school. She particularly liked math. A fellow survivor, a man who was an engineer by training, taught arithmetic and geometry. He was a volunteer at the makeshift school. He may not have known much about teaching, but that didn’t trouble Paula. She loved the precision and logic of the subject and took to it naturally. In addition to the academics, Paula took sewing. An organization, ORT, set up vocational training opportunities in the DP camps. Paula took full advantage.

The Silberfarbs planned to sail to Cuba from France. They left the DP camp only to find that the ship wasn’t there. With the assistance of another organization, HIAS, which helped with paperwork, and additional funds from Uncle Nachum, the Silberfarbs flew from Paris to Havana. Flying was unheard of among the survivors! It was another act of generosity by Nachum.

They arrived in Havana to both a warm welcome and warm weather. Paula’s aunts and uncles set up a furnished apartment for them. Paula began working, first in Uncle Solomon’s store and then in Uncle Nachum’s. She liked the responsibility of work, completing her tasks to the best of her ability, and she treated the stores as if they were her own. She felt a loyalty to her uncles who continued to be so supportive of her and her mother and siblings. They settled into life in Havana, enjoying for the first time tropical fruits like mangos, going to the beach and picking up another language, Spanish, along the way.

Paula resumed her correspondence with David, now that they were both settled. David was in a rooming house in Brooklyn near his Uncle Willie and Aunt Rose and had a job at their pickle factory. They agreed he would come to Havana for a visit. He saved his money and he went to Cuba in November of 1949 to see if they might have a future together.

Survival

NOTE: We pick up my mother-in-law Paula’s story, as the place where they were sheltering became unsafe. It is early in 1943.

Lea gathered her children and they moved on, grateful to Dimitrov for his generosity, but well aware that they had no choice but to leave. This would be the pattern for the next two years. They would find shelter, an abandoned hut, or a farmer who supported the Partisans who let them stay in his barn, or a camp in the woods with other Jews, and stay in that place for as long as it seemed safe. It could be days or weeks, inevitably, though, the danger of German soldiers or collaborators closed in. Lea could not let her guard down.

After leaving Dimitrov’s farm they met up with a group of Jews in the forest who knew where there were other Partisans. They went through the dense forest to find them. At night Lea would venture out of the forest to knock on doors to beg for food – some gave; others didn’t. One night a dog bit her on the foot. When she got back to their camp Lea boiled pinecones and used the water to clean the wound, unfortunately it became infected and it hobbled her.

Lea did her best to keep up the pace as they continued their trek through the woods, but eventually she needed to stop to rest her throbbing foot. Bernie, fearful that they would be caught and angry at his mother’s injury, left them and went ahead. The girls stayed with their mother. After a long while, he came back – he realized he couldn’t leave his mother and sisters. Fortunately, with time, Lea’s wound healed.

They came across another farmer who took them to a hut. Lea sewed for that farmer. During the war everything was in short supply, anything that could be repaired needed to be. Lea’s skills were put to use and in return the farmer provided food. They stayed there for about 6 weeks. Paula had reprieve enough to notice the beauty of the surrounding green forest. To Paula the woods came to represent safety.

At the end of the 6 weeks, the farmer told them where there was a Jewish encampment and they started in that direction. But they heard shooting, so they changed direction. They later heard the Partisans where they were headed got overconfident, got drunk and careless; a gang of Crimeans attacked them. Jews and Partisans were killed. Fortunately, once again, Lea’s good sense kept them away from danger.

While on the move, they crossed paths with a neighbor from Serniki, Natan Bobrov. He told them that more Jewish Partisans were in Lasitsk, a town north and east of where they were at that point. They made their way there.

During all of this, Lea fed her children positive thoughts. “The war will finish,” she reassured them. She reminded them, “We have family in Brazil and Cuba.” She kept their spirits up as best she could. She was always thinking a step ahead, of ways to escape. “We had hope,” Paula remembered. They huddled together for warmth and kept going.

They came to a clearing in the woods and saw a house. Knocking on the door was always a risk, but Lea used her best judgment. Unbeknownst to her they came upon a village that supported the Partisans. Paula was asked to crochet a huge scarf with scalloped edges– she didn’t actually know how to do it, but she persevered and figured it out. Paula stayed in the house, she knit or crocheted all day, making gloves and socks to support the Partisans. Lea, Bernie and Sofia stayed in the barn. They helped with farm chores. The family’s son was also in the Partisans. Lea and the children stayed the whole winter. If company came to visit, Paula went to the barn to join her mom and siblings.

At this point, the Russians began to turn the tide of the war. Slowly the Soviet army reclaimed the parts of Poland they had occupied before the Nazi invasion. Serniki was liberated from German control, but the Silberfarbs were about 100 kilometers away. The front moved but the war was not yet over.

Lea and her children were on the move again and they came upon the Soviet army who shared canned goods and chocolates with them. Paula could not remember the last time she had chocolate. She delighted in the rich, sweet treat. They were relieved to be in a bigger town, though bombing continued, they felt safer in the company of the army.

Life was improving, but then Sofia got typhus. Lea tried to treat her but thought it was serious enough that she brought Sofia to the Russian infirmary. Sofia was cared for there. Each child, in turn, got ill. Paula was admitted to the infirmary, as well. Bernie didn’t trust the doctors, and despite his illness, refused to be examined. He went so far as to jump out a window to avoid his mother’s efforts to get him to go with her to the doctor. Lea worked in the infirmary, cleaning, emptying bedpans in return for the care of her children. After the children recovered, the army gave them a ride to Pinsk. They sat atop barrels of kerosene on the back of a truck for the bumpy ride, but at least they weren’t walking.

When they got to Pinsk, they shared a house with another family. Lea baked and sold bread to try to bring in some needed money, even though doing so was illegal under the Communist system. She was questioned by the NKVD, the secret police, numerous times.

One day at the market, as she was selling bread, she spotted someone who looked familiar. She studied the man at a distance and slowly it dawned on her. She approached cautiously, but as she drew closer, their eyes met. It was Dmitrov Lacunyetz, the farmer who first hid the Silberfarbs. Neither of them could believe their eyes. They hugged in relief, absorbing the fact that each had survived the war. It was a tearful reunion. “Now I can die in peace,” he told her. Throughout the war he wondered if he had really helped them. Lea shared some yeast and salt with him as a gesture of appreciation, though she felt it was little compared to what he had done for them

Striving for normalcy, Paula went back to school in Pinsk. The war finally ended in May of 1945 while the family was in Pinsk. Paula was now 14 years old and had spent three years moving through the forest with her mom and siblings in a quest to survive.

The Silberfarbs knew they couldn’t go back to Serniki – there was nothing for them there. They wanted to go to Israel even though they had family in Brazil and Cuba. They wanted to live among Jews. Lea weighed their options. The first step was to go to a displaced persons (DP) camp, which was where transit arrangements could be made. What they found at the DP camp would change Paula’s life.

The red dot is Serniki in Belarus – too small to merit a label. Even today there are no large towns or cities nearby.

A Different World: Wichita Falls, TX 1954

Note: This is another essay by my mother, Feige Brody. Here she looks back on her time accompanying my father to Wichita Falls, Texas, where he served in the U.S. Air Force. Mom was newly married and just 21 years old.

I walked into Idlewild airport (now JFK) in New York in 1954. I was taking a flight to join my husband who was stationed at Sheppard Air Force Base in Texas. Hours later I landed in Dallas, a whole different world. Signs jumped out at me, ‘No Colored Allowed’ above water fountains, bathroom entrances and restaurants. ‘Whites Only’ plastered along the brightly lit walls. It shocked me like a slap in the face. I felt revolted, but why was I so appalled? I read books, I saw movies, read newspaper articles, I knew segregation existed. So why was I so upset?

I lived in a different world. My neighborhood in Brooklyn was integrated. I went to elementary, junior high, high school and Brooklyn College with Negroes, as African-Americans were called at that time. We had one Chinese student whose father owned the laundry around the corner, and I knew Hispanic kids, too; my classmates were all colors from different countries around the world. It seemed to me that they joined school clubs and played team sports, in fact some went on to play on professional teams. We took pride in that. This was a time when Jackie Robinson was a beloved member of the Brooklyn Dodgers. The ballparks and arenas that I went to weren’t segregated – watching games at Ebbetts Field, Madison Square Garden, and the Polo Grounds we all sat together. On the surface, at least, it seemed to be an integrated society.

When we went to the movies, we saw famous white actors in black-face, where Fred Astaire imitated Bojangles, and we didn’t think anything of it.  I was oblivious to the racism implicit in those movies or the wider culture. I didn’t see the subtler signs of racism in Brooklyn. When I arrived at the airport in Dallas, it was blindingly obvious.

Barry picked me up in a beat-up blue Pontiac with 150,000 miles on the odometer. It had dings, scars and scratches from battles won and lost. Riding to the air force base we struggled with the balky car fan which provided little relief from the oppressive heat and the erratic radio reception.

The ride was even more nerve wracking because Barry did not have his driver’s license yet. He had just learned to drive, my father taught him in Brooklyn before he left, and this was the very first car he ever bought; no one in his family had one before. Barry was waiting for his license to come in the mail. I kept my fingers crossed that we didn’t get pulled over by the police.

We started our slow drive to Wichita Falls through a landscape totally new to me. I expected to see oil derricks, but they weren’t anywhere to be found. Instead I saw houses with what looked like water pumps in their yards but were in fact oil pumps. I later learned that the derricks wasted too much oil and were replaced by numerous, smaller pumps.

Our trip took us past small towns – some had signs “No Colored Allowed.” Another shock to my system.

As we got closer to the air force base the air quality changed. An odor of rotten eggs and something metallic overwhelmed us. I learned that Texans say they blow the odor to Oklahoma overnight and they return the stench to Texas in the morning. I didn’t realize until then that Oklahoma was just a stone’s throw away from Wichita Falls.

We arrived at our rented apartment in town as they had no room for us on the base. Unable to open the door with the key we had been provided, a neighbor came over saying, “You have to poosh and pool.” Barry translated, he pushed and pulled and got the door open.

That first day, Barry drove me to do some basic shopping. I had to learn the lingo: I got a sack, not a bag, and pop, not soda. I was coming out of the store as a young Black woman walked toward me and she stepped off the wide, shady sidewalk into the sunny, dirty gutter. She never looked up and I couldn’t catch her eye. I was confused. That’s when I noticed the “Whites only” sign on the supermarket. The woman went through an alley to place her order at a side window. She wasn’t permitted in the store. I rarely went into town again. I lived in an all-white neighborhood and went to a small store on the corner. I didn’t see a Black person unless I went to the base.

On Wednesday, April 20, 1955 I went into labor and had my first child, Steven, at the air force base hospital. I went in at noon and delivered at 3:00 p.m. and I came home on Friday. I was prepared to give birth without family or friends present, but I was not prepared for natural childbirth! It was without any drugs for pain because the hospital staff were on their lunch break and when they returned at 1:00 it was too late; it would have been dangerous to the baby.

I called my parents on Sunday I told them we had the bris. Mom corrected me, telling me it was a circumcision (since it wasn’t officiated by a rabbi or performed by a mohel).

Barry and I survived being new parents with Dr. Spock, Mother’s telephone advice and a caring pediatrician. The pediatrician advised bringing Steven out in the fresh air. On a sunny, mild day I took Steve out with a blanket and put him on the grass. A neighbor came running out, shouting, “No, no! Chiggers!” She explained that chiggers were tiny bugs living in the grass and similar to mosquitoes, but they bit you and stayed under your skin. You have to light match at the site of the bite and watch it crawl out. It was the last time we walked on the grass. I never heard of that in Brooklyn.

My parents flew to visit us one long weekend. Barry went to the base with a friend and gave Dad that beat up blue Pontiac. Dad couldn’t get over the way he was treated when he went to the base or the PX. He was waved through security without needing to stop. After my parents left, the airmen were in formation as the general passed. Barry had to smile because the general was the spitting image of my father. Calling home, my father said, “No way, they were just being polite.” The thought on base was that the general came to do his inspection early, in disguise. The beat-up blue Pontiac was a ruse.

There were good things about our time in Wichita Falls, besides the birth of Steven. We made a life-long friend in Oliver Hailey (who went on to become a playwright with a show on Broadway). And our neighbors did help, especially the one who took a huge scorpion out of my bathtub. We were glad to leave and looked forward to our next assignment at Westover Air Force Base in Chicoppee Falls, Massachussetts.

We packed up the car. They didn’t make car seats for babies yet, so we put a small mattress across the back seat and tucked Steven in. Leaving at midnight, we drove until 3:00 a.m. and were somewhere in Arkansas when we realized we were hungry. We pulled into a small shack that said ‘Eats’ in big letters.

Stopping, leaving Steven sleeping the in the back seat, we walked into an all-Black restaurant. We saw no outward sign; we had no idea. They served us politely and one of the patrons kept an eye on Steven, looking out the door and telling us that all was well. As we left, I knew if the opposite had occurred, a Black family stopped at a white restaurant, it would not have gone the same way.

We arrived in Brooklyn for a brief stay between assignments. It was good to be back. Home is where the heart is.

Paula’s Journey Continues

Note: This is the next chapter in Paula’ journey. I have continued to research her story and the Holocaust in general since this was originally posted over two years ago which has allowed me to add more information and to improve the clarity of the narrative. If you have read this before, I hope you will choose to read it in its updated form. If you are new to it, I hope it both broadens and deepens your understanding of the personal tragedies experienced by survivors.

As I noted last week, most of the story comes from Paula’s Shoah testimony. One of the difficulties inherent in working from that is deciphering the names of people and places since they are either Yiddish or Polish. I have done my best to present the correct names and locations but recognize the potential for error. I don’t believe those potential errors materially change the truth of the story.

As a reminder, Paula’s immediate family, the Silberfarbs, included her mother (Lea), her father (Samuel), her older brother (Bernard or Bernie), and younger sister (Sofia). Her paternal grandfather was Gershon. One other piece of information for context: Serniki was a town of about 5,000 people, about 1,000 were Jewish.

After the two desperate men who escaped death shared their horrifying experience, the atmosphere in Serniki changed. Townspeople learned that Pinsk, the closest and biggest city, 19 miles to the northwest, was overrun by the Nazis on July 4, 1941. It was just a matter of time until they continued their march across Poland. As invasion by the powerful German army loomed, the Russians retreated, leaving a power vacuum in Serniki.

Some Gentiles took advantage of the absence of leadership and appointed themselves police, meting out justice as they saw fit. Anti-Semitism reared its ugly head. Where previously the communities peacefully coexisted, now Jewish homes were robbed, violence against Jews was perpetrated without consequence. Many Jews hid their valuables, believing that they were vulnerable not only when the Germans invaded, but at the hands of their Gentile neighbors. 

The Silberfarbs took their prized possessions to a farmer on the outskirts of town who did business with Samuel. The whole family went because Samuel and Lea planned to leave Serniki permanently, continuing on after securing their things. While they were with the farmer, they received word that Gershon (Samuel’s father) had been murdered. Devastated, Samuel felt they had no choice but to go back to Serniki to bury him.

Upon their return they learned a man named Danilo Polohowicz was the murderer. They heard Danilo shot Gershon as he stood in his backyard garden in broad daylight. There were witnesses and fearing no consequence, Danilo boasted about it in town.  He was right to fear no punishment; he wasn’t arrested or prosecuted for the crime.

Samuel went to his father’s house to oversee the funeral arrangements and, in keeping with Jewish tradition, stayed with the body until the interment. Lea and the children went back to their house, but instead of staying in the main house, they spent the night in the apartment next door. Lea thought, given the atmosphere in town, that the house would be a likely target of robbers. Lea was right. The four Silberfarbs, Lea and her three children, huddled under the bed in the apartment, listening to the sounds of burglars ransacking their house. The next morning, they cautiously returned to their home to survey the damage and found it in disarray, with floorboards lifted.

That day a German soldier on horseback came through the streets shouting, “Every Jew to the market!” Lea knew what that meant. She had no intention of taking her children to the market. Samuel still wasn’t home – as far as she knew he remained at his father’s house. Lea decided to try to escape with the children. She didn’t know where Samuel was or how to get information to him, but she didn’t think she could do anything to help him, so she focused her attention on saving her children.

They ran out their backyard through fields, across roads, towards the Stubla River, avoiding areas they suspected had police activity. As they approached the river, Bernie abruptly stopped. Lea had persuaded him to come, despite his reluctance to leave without his father. Now Bernie was unwilling to go any further – he said he wouldn’t leave without Daddy. Lea couldn’t convince him. Bernie turned back to town. Lea felt she had no choice but to continue. She took the girls to the farmer who hid their belongings. When they got to his house, he covered them all with hay and told them to wait while he went to town to investigate.

It felt like an eternity until the farmer came back and reported that the Germans kept the men to do work – to dig ditches. The streets of Sernicki flooded easily and in preparation for trucks and troops, they commanded the Jewish men of the town to dig drainage ditches. The women and children were sent home. The farmer told the Silberfarbs it was safe to return. Instead they went to a cousin’s house. This cousin’s house was situated closer to the Stubla and offered a better route of escape than their own home. By this time, it was dark out. They were relieved to see a light was on in their cousin’s house– if the house was dark, Lea was prepared to hide under the bridge by the river. They were doubly relieved to find that Bernie was also there. He had gone to the market, but since he was under 14 years of age, too young to be put to work, he was sent home. He, too, decided to go to the cousin’s house. Bernie reported that he hadn’t seen his father.

The next day, Lea went to the market alone to see if she could find Samuel. She spotted her nephew on a work detail but could not locate her husband. While she was near the market a Gentile townsperson gave Lea a message from Samuel, “Say kaddish for me.” [Kaddish is the Jewish prayer for the dead.] Lea couldn’t allow herself to panic or be distracted. She went back to the cousin’s house and thought about what to do next.

That afternoon they heard machine gun fire. Later they heard what happened. Samuel was hiding in the garden of his Aunt Fanny’s house with Lea’s brother, Avrumchik. They discussed escaping. Avrumchik agreed to run to the river first because he wasn’t married and he had no children. If there was no gunfire, Samuel would follow. There was gunfire, but unbeknownst to Samuel, Avrumchik wasn’t injured. Samuel stayed put. German soldiers, combing the town for Jews, found him in the garden and arrested him.

Later that day 120 men, the town’s Jewish leaders, and one woman were executed. They were marched to a ditch near the cemetery, lined up and shot from behind. Among them was Samuel Silberfarb.

The Germans did not liquidate the entire Jewish community of Serniki at that point. They created a ghetto for the remaining Jews. Families doubled up in houses located on just a few streets. The Silberfarbs lived in the ghetto with another family. In Samuel’s absence, Uncle Avrumchik looked after them.

While living in the ghetto, Paula learned to knit and crochet (which turned out to be valuable skills through the war years). Fortunately, they had access to books – Paula sat by the window reading by the moonlight reflecting off the snow. Reading gave her rare moments of peace. Food was scarce – Mother would make a soup with a few potatoes, mostly water. They were barely getting by and, in fact, Lea’s mother passed away while they were in the ghetto.

Lea knew that they would not be permitted to stay in the ghetto indefinitely. It was now April of 1942 and there were rumors of an ‘aktion.’ (An ‘aktion’ was when the Germans would order the gathering of the Jews in the town square and either march them to the rim of a ravine and shoot them or deport them on trains to concentration camps.) The Silberfarbs snuck out of the ghetto and went again to the cousin’s house closer to the river. Across the Stubla there was a small group of wealthier homes (some Jews lived there – Paula thought perhaps they were allowed to stay by paying bribes). Those homes provided an even better opportunity for escape. The Silberfarbs had a relative in one of those homes – they decided to try to get there, though there was a guard at the bridge. Lea studied his routine and advised Bernie, and an aunt and uncle when to sneak across. Lea and the girls planned to go the next day. Later that afternoon there was a call for Jews to re-register. Lea understood what this meant and told her children “We are not going! We will not go back to town.” Uncle Avrumchik did go back to investigate (they never saw him again).

That night Lea couldn’t sleep. She sat in the window looking out. She saw headlights coming across the bridge – she understood that this meant that more of the German army was arriving. Lea woke everyone in the house (more than just the Silberfarbs were there) – they went out the back and fled across the river and into the woods. They dispersed in different directions, though Lea, Paula and Sofia stayed together. The next day they heard the rat-a-tat-tat of machine gun fire coming from town. 850 men, women and children, the remaining Jewish population of Serniki were murdered and buried in a ditch on the outskirts of town.

As Lea and the girls fled, she thought of a man that Samuel used to do business with – they would try to make their way to him. His name was Dmitrov Lacunyetz.  When they arrived he cried like a baby when he saw them and heard what happened to Samuel. Bernie, and the aunt and uncle had already arrived at Dmitrov’s farm. Dmitrov brought them all to a forested area on his property to hide. He kept them there for 16 weeks.

Dmitrov supplied them with food once a day. After a while, he sent his son-in-law to deliver the provisions. In order to avoid bringing suspicion upon themselves, they varied the routine. The son-in-law, now that it was getting colder, built them a little hut out of young birch trees. There were 8 of them in hiding. They had two spoons. Two people at a time would eat from the kettle that was brought to them. There would be some arguing over the food – “Don’t eat so much! Leave for the others!” It was usually a soup with millet (a grain used frequently in the region). At one point, Bernie was so hungry he couldn’t take it anymore – he went begging. He had some success and brought back and shared whatever he was given. On his rounds, he was asked “Are you Gypsy or Jew?” He said, “Gypsy,” thinking it was the lesser of two evils.

There was a Partisan brigade (a group of people resisting/fighting the Nazis) in the area. Though the Silberfarbs weren’t part of the brigade, Lea felt they were safer when they were near them. Unfortunately, there was a dispute with a farmer over a cow and the Partisans killed the farmer’s son in the confrontation. The farmer vowed to inform the Germans. The area became unsafe. It was now the end of 1942. The Silberfarbs had to move on.

Lea Silberfarb on the left. Paula on the right.