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Golanski's Treasures

~ a novel

Golanski's Treasures

Category Archives: Holocaust

Friendships – Part Two

15 Friday Jun 2012

Posted by Golanskis Treasures in History, Holocaust, Jewish Culture & Traditions

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

College Hill School, Evanston Township High School, Facebook, Friends, Friendships, Gypsy, Illinois, Jews, Lower East Side, Middle East, New York City, Palestinians, Romania, Skiles Jr. High School, Syria

This past week I’ve continued to enjoy a fabulous exchange with childhood friends on FaceBook through what can only be called an ongoing “Virtual Reunion.”  My High School, Jr. HS and now even Elementary School friends have been examining and identifying the faces of children we knew and were) a very, very long time ago.  (Well, perhaps only one “very!)  It’s what got me thinking that it was time to introduce my novel’s central character’s band of friends — Max’s self-named, Alter Kochers Club (Yiddish for “Old Farts”).

Max's Alter Kocher Club

Max’s Alter Kochers Club

Max’s best friend Sammy (presented in the last post) is as gregarious on one side of the equation as the conversely withdrawn and sullen Sid. A curmudgeon, he gets quiet pleasure from engaging Sammy in lively debate, as his negativity is the perfect foil to Sammy’s positive energy. So, I invite you to join us again by pulling up a virtual chair at the Cafe Arabica, brewing your own cup of coffee and grabbing a pastry of your own as we enter Max’s world on New York City’s Lower East Side.

Cuppa Coffee and a Pastry

Cafe Arabica – “Cuppa Coffee and a pastry.”

INTRODUCING SID LEDERMAN! Sid is a man uncomfortable with the changing events around him, and definitely not receptive to a “one world, one family” viewpoint. He’s conflicted by wanting time with his friends, but having to meet with them in a place uncomfortable to his politics. He enjoys owner Dahoud’s fine Syrian coffee and pastries, but has made it painfully clear that he not only abhors anyone who might remotely be tied to Nazis, but is also is suspicious about current events surrounding Jewish-Arab relationships, feeling such things should not be taken lightly.

(NOTE:  Quoted text is copyright protected by Sue Ross, 2012 and remains the exclusive property of the author.  Use of this material without permission is prohibited.)

When Dahoud’s wife, Bahia Mariana took over the counter, Dahoud would pull a chair to the table and bait the old Jews about current events in the Middle East.  Max, Sammy and Morrie usually joined in the spirit of discourse, but Sid had actually left the café on more than one occasion.  Each time he vowed in a loud voice that he “would never return,” railing against the Palestinians, the oil-rich sheiks of the Middle East, and the need to keep Arabs and Jews apart.  Yet, for every time Sid had stormed off in a cloud of anger, he somehow managed to return the next Thursday, taking his accustomed seat as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired.

Sid could only be described as rotund, a man made large by the delicacies that seemed to follow him everywhere he went.  Originally from Romania, he was considered by some to be a bit of a ‘gonif’ (thief), an attribute accredited to his inherited gypsy blood.  Troubled by an asthmatic condition, ill-fitting dentures that clicked when he spoke, and a panoply of arthritic aches and pains that frequently prevented his getting a sound sleep, Sid’s disposition was what one might expect from someone walking in tight shoes for days at a time.  He was always dressed in the same plaid shirt, over which he managed to squeeze a sweater at least two sizes too small with trousers worn belted high above what was once a waistline.  Sid took comfort in his unhappiness and wore his badge as group curmudgeon with a degree of self-appointed importance.


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Friendships – Max’s Gang

09 Saturday Jun 2012

Posted by Golanskis Treasures in Holocaust, Jewish Culture & Traditions, Writing, Yiddish

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Alter Kocher, Ashkenazi Jews, Cafe, Evanston, Facebook, family, Friendships, Illinois, Jews, Lower East Side, New York City, Reunion, Yiddish, Yiddish language

FRIENDS!

Flickr friends

The fuel behind the energy of our lives, friends are those rare individuals who elect to share life’s journey.  They are there during the good times – and the bad. While not related by blood, they are the people who elect to be there for us – our companions, confidants, and fellow-travelers by choice. Recently, friends from my youth have actively come together through FaceBook.  Perhaps the process of aging has caused us to reach back and gather close those who shared the formative years of our lives, inviting them to join us once again even as we venture forward. The process of exploring our collective past in Evanston, Illinois has brought up rich images of places, people, and experiences. Coalescing, these long-standing friendships are blending past and present.  The longing for the warm and familiar surroundings of our youth is being replaced by an extended family picking up where we left off.

That’s probably why two of my greatest pleasures in writing GOLANSKI’S TREASURES have been time spent with Max as a child reliving a youth surrounded by a warm and loving family – and as an older man in New York’s Lower East Side neighborhood.

English: Tenement buildings in the Lower East ...

Tenement buildings in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, New York City. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Having lost his family to the Holocaust, Max has developed a few close friendships with colorful characters who’ve stepped in to provide him with a semblance of family.  While they can’t replace those he lost, they provide him with a connection to the world, and camaraderie that only comes from being “known.”  They are a lively group, and I thought you might enjoy them.  So, without further ado, I’d like to begin introducing Max’s “gang!”

Leading the pack is Sammy, an animated ball of energy and Max’s closest buddy.  Sid is best  described as a well-meaning, but undeniable curmudgeon, and Morrie is simply a sweet and kindly soul.  Every week they meet for “a cuppa coffee and a pastry” at the Cafe Arabica, followed by pinochle in a nearby park.

Max's "Alter Kocher Club"

Max’s “Alter Kochers Club”

However, rather than my telling you about them in the context of discussion, I thought you might enjoy taking a moment to peak beneath the tent of the world where Max lives.  So, today I’d like to invite you to brew up a cup of your own coffee, pull up a virtual chair at the Cafe Arabica and meet the first of Max’s “Alter Kochers Club” (Yiddish for “Old Farts”), Sammy Fuchs.  I hope you enjoy him as much as I do!

(NOTE:  Quoted text is copyright protected by Sue Ross, 2012 and remains the exclusive property of the author.  Use of this material without permission is prohibited.)

Sammy was small verging on elfin with hair an entity onto itself.  Jutting out at odd angles it danced around a face defined by years of laughter.  From the rakishly crinkled skin around his mouth, to his laughing eyes, Sammy was undeniably unique.  In many ways, his hair served as an antenna that drew attention to his way of interacting with the world.  While not immune from life’s challenges, he had traveled the years with sorrows miraculously held at bay.

‘It’s all about attitude,’ he’d explain, finding life much more to his liking when experienced as he wished it could be, rather than the way it really was.

Sammy’s family was from Munich, where before WWII Jews served as the heads of governments, banks, and universities.  Fully assimilated within the dominant society, their experiences were decidedly different from those of Eastern Europeans.  This contributed to a certain modicum of class distinction that sometimes spilled over into dealings with other ‘lansman.’  Possessing this self-inflated sense of worth as a German Jew bolstered Sammy’s already strong sense of personal power.  He identified himself as the group’s self-acclaimed troublemaker, whose mission in life was to keep both his contemporaries, and the rest of the world on their toes — one of the few things left that gave him pleasure.

‘Sex is like a song,’ he’d say.  ‘I can hum the melody, but can’t quite remember the words.  And food?  With these lousy dentures it’s impossible to chew anything to set my taste buds on fire!  We come into the world gumming pabulum and we leave it the same way.’  For Sammy, making waves was not only a form of entertainment, but a skill elevated to an art form.

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Humanity’s Moral Imperative

05 Saturday May 2012

Posted by Golanskis Treasures in anti-Semitism, Genocide, History, Holocaust

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Aremenian Genocide, current-events, Genocide, holocaust, Human Rights, Keene State College, Nazism, Nuremberg Trials, Rwanda, Rwandan Genocide, Sonoma State University, World War II, YOM HASHOAH

Yom HaShoah has passed, yet discussions continue as to the importance of keeping the Holocaust “present” in memory and psyche.  Having immersed myself in studying the events leading up to and through one of the acknowledged crimes of any century, I have come to learn several things that bear repeating.

One piece of information came from Dr. James Miller from Keene State College, an extraordinary presenter in the Holocaust and Genocide Lecture Series at Sonoma State University.  Dr. Miller actually conducts week-long training sessions with diplomats and military leaders at Auschwitz to empower their greater understanding of the nature of genocide.  It is hoped that as “boots on the ground” they can identify early warnings of hostilities toward groups of people before they erupt into full-fledged genocide.

Dr. Miller shared studies as to how it was possible for such evil to exist and be visited upon innocents both during the Holocaust and other 20th century genocides (Armenia, Cambodia, and Rwanda, to name a few.)  It was chilling to learn that the Nazis were not unusual in their makeup and are not believed to have been born inherently evil (a nation of “bad seeds” so to speak).  While The Third Reich’s leadership set into motion the unfathomable murder of millions, the lower-level functionaries who carried out their heinous crimes were average individuals . . . the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker . . . the doctor the lawyer, the housewife . . . the teacher, the merchant, the laborer.  Individuals like any other.  Individuals.  No different than you or me.

Nuremberg Trials

For me, that information makes Yom HaShoah even more compelling.  Once a year we not only commemorate the systematic destruction of human life, and set in our hearts the memories of those who perished — but engage in self-examination.  If “regular people” perpetuated such horrors upon others, what might WE have done had we been given such orders?  Would we have followed along without question?  If so, how might we have justified our actions against the moral compass that steers our lives?  What would have made it feel “right” to murder innocents?

Yom HaShoah also invites our putting ourselves in the position of those targeted for destruction.  What would we have done to save ourselves and our loved ones?  Would we have questioned?  Would we have hidden behind a wall of denial to maintain our sanity?  Would we have resisted?  Would we have tried to hide or flee?  Would we have denounced our heritage?  Would we have sacrificed others to save ourselves?

Moral dilemmas on both sides of the equation.  And now, as the numbers of Holocaust Survivors dwindle due to the passing years, efforts to record their memories and keep alive their stories has escalated.  Escalated, for as memories of the Holocaust fade, the potential for it being repeated grows stronger.  Many years ago, when I visited Jerusalem’s Yad v’Shem Museum, the words, “LEST WE FORGET” were emblazoned upon a large sign at the entry.  Those words stood as a reminder to all human beings that lessons not learned, or forgotten are doomed to be repeated.

There is a distinct challenge in writing a fictionalized version about real events that happened to real people in real places so many years after the fact.  Those who experienced WWII directly, or the generation that followed is not the experience of young people now in school, let alone future generations.  It is disturbing to realize that a growing number of people are unaware of the Holocaust.  Taking it a step further, many have also never heard of Rwanda’s genocide, notwithstanding the news coverage that marked the gruesome events of 1994 — just 18 years ago.

Remembering Rwanda Genocide

As a society, we are exposed to images of violence and brutality daily – in the news, online, in video games, television and film.  Such distancing from the Holocaust and equally disconcerting, the desensitization of our young people, is a breeding ground for future genocides.

Genocide is dependent upon various things falling handily into place:

  • Victims must be either demonized and/or dehumanized so the distance between “us and them” widens.  The more people are identified as “others,” or “outsiders,” the less empathy one builds towards them and the more likely actions against them are not perceived with the same level of intensity than had they been close to us.
  • Those who take comfort from a pack mentality consider whomever holds a leadership position above question.  They prefer being told what to do rather than think independently, tending to forgive themselves from even the most unimaginable crimes as being appropriate and condoned by the larger group.
  • And most importantly, genocide would be less likely to succeed if others spoke out against the oppression of others.  Bullies – whether national leaders, religious zealots, political power-mongerers or the big guy throwing around his weight on the school playground – could be rendered less powerful if people stood up and said, “NO!  THIS IS NOT ACCEPTABLE!”  The silence of witnesses, whether complacent in the crime or not, allows the criminal free reign.

If people, young or old, are unfamiliar with what happened both during the Holocaust, and other instances of genocide around the world — it is the responsibility of a sane, compassionate and humane society to inform them.  If such examples seem too distant, ask if they’ve ever experienced, or witnessed bullying, bigotry, or racism.  EMPATHY is key.  If the human race is to retain its humanity, we must see ourselves as part of a larger family of mankind – OUR family – which must be protected and respected by everyone if we are to survive as a species.

NEVER AGAIN!

Yad V’Shem, the Memorial Museum in Jerusalem

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NEVER AGAIN!

18 Wednesday Apr 2012

Posted by Golanskis Treasures in anti-Semitism, Genocide, History, Holocaust

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

6 Million, Auschwitz, books, Day of Remembrance, Elie Wiesel, Final Solution, Genocide, Hitler, holocaust, Jews, John Donne, Martyr, Nazi, Poland, World War II, YOM HASHOAH

YOM HASHOAH – REMEMBERING THE MARTYRS

Yom HaShoah Memorial Candle

No man is an island, entire onto itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were: any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.

I have long felt John Donne’s eloquent statement to be a somber reminder of what should be a basic tenet of human existence. How different might our world have been had such ideals dominated Europe from 1939 – 1945. Instead, our human family was indeed diminished.

Six million Jews and millions of others were systematically annihilated in the penultimate pogrom we have come to know as THE HOLOCAUST: Communists, Czechs, Greeks, Gypsies, homosexuals, Jehovah’s Witnesses, mentally and physically handicapped, Poles, Resistance fighters, Russians, Serbs, Socialists, Spanish Republicans, trade unionists, Ukrainians, Yugoslavians, prisoners of war of many nations, and countless others.

Those  who perished were lost to the world in body, but not spirit, for as long as we remember them, they live on.  And so we remember. And in remembering we honor the innocent, and reaffirm our condemnation of the guilty. We remember in the hope that in so doing such crimes will not be repeated.

We will remember them in services around the world today during YOM HASHOAH, “The Day of Remembrance.”  We will be moved by speakers, some who survived the conflagration. We will voice heartfelt prayers and light memorial candles. We will reflect upon man’s inhumanity to man as perpetuated by the Nazi killing machine in Europe. We will realize the immensity of the crime — six million Jews. Two-thirds of Europe’s Jewish pre-WWII population, and half the world’s pre WWII Jewish population.

In 1989 the Holocaust became irrevocably real to me as I explored the killing grounds of Auschwitz while traveling on behalf of Spertus Museum of Judaica.  I was not obligated to visit, but felt a that bearing witness to the Holocaust was a responsibility – a moral imperative. Walking past displays of “physical evidence” I kept reminding myself that “but for the Grace of God….” It was a sobering and life-changing experience.

Years later, immersed in writing, my fingers froze as they were poised above my computer’s keyboard. I was uncertain as to how to tackle the chapter where my fictionalized character (Holocaust Survivor Max Golanski) visited the death camp where he had been imprisoned.  I simply couldn’t wrap my brain around it. Knowing the impact visiting Auschwitz had upon ME, I was stymied as to how to enter the skin of one who had actually lived that horrific truth, then returned to renew his tie to the time, place and events as a living witness.

As happens sometimes among those of us who are either blessed (or condemned) to write, I finally removed myself from the process and let Max tell his story. I typed at a rapid clip, through closed eyes as my heart drummed madly against the walls of my chest.  The chapter quickly evolved into a surreal ballet. I was there only to serve as scribe.

To honor the memories of the innocents murdered in the Holocaust, I offer the following selection from that chapter of  GOLANSKI’S TREASURES.  May the memories of the Martyrs be a blessing, and may we live to see a day where “Never Again” is no longer a prayer, but a reality.

(NOTE:  Quoted text is copyright protected by Sue Ross, 2012 and remains the exclusive property of the author.  Use of this material without permission is prohibited.)

Max entered a darkened room made smaller by the omnipresence of a large urn.  Its circumference was the size of a mature tree’s trunk, yet stood only a few feet tall.  The focal point of the room, the simple and unadorned urn beckoned Max to approach.

Slowly walking forward he stopped abruptly, as if confronted by a hidden barrier.  Noticing a sign in Polish, he drew closer to read the faded words, then pulled back abruptly, his breath wrenched from his chest.  Suspended in time, Max felt the presence of invisible sentries hovering nearby.  Stepping back a few paces his heart slowly absorbed the simple words inscribed.  The simple clay urn cradled precious ashes collected from the ovens.  Ashes taken from the nameless, faceless, countless, unknown souls who had perished in the crematoria.

Reaching a trembling hand towards the vessel, Max felt a bolt of electricity course through his body as his hand made contact.  Was he touching the cheek of his beloved wife?  The shoulder of his childhood friend?  Had the ashes of a young Russian soldier co-mingled with an old Gypsy woman with flashing gold-earrings, or a sympathetic Catholic priest who dared to object?  Was that the laughter of a small girl?  The sobbing of an old woman?  Were those the persistent and distinctly melodious strains of a violin crying with her?

As he withdrew his hand, Max’s breath swooped back into his lungs leaving him gasping and light-headed.  Closing his eyes he sighed deeply.  A long, thin puff of air escaped his lips.  Max was reminded that the Third Reich’s perverted quest for world domination was built upon subjugating and exterminating all non-Aryans.  Its malignant vision left no one people holding a monopoly on suffering.  Death had become the great equalizer.

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PASSOVER – The Story!

06 Friday Apr 2012

Posted by Golanskis Treasures in Holocaust, Jewish Culture & Traditions, Jewish Foods, Writing

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Cecil B. DeMille, Charlton Heston, Diaspora, Exodus, family, films, Jews, Judaism, Moses, Passover, Pesach, Seder, The Ten Commandments

Beginning Friday evening, Jewish people around the world will gather to retell the story of the Exodus. Extraordinary! Modern-day Jews, religious or not, continue to fulfill the ancient, biblical commandment “And you will tell your son (sic: children) on that day saying….” The story of the Jewish Exodus in the 6th century BCE following the destruction of the Second Temple joins Jewish people worldwide to shared origins, binding us to Jewish culture, traditions, and one another.  As a storyteller, I have always been fascinated by the magnetism of this saga as a vehicle offering both connection and inclusion.

Is the story true?  Some believe every word while others consider the story a metaphor.  I find its greatest value as offering a framework within which the concept of faith and deliverance are renewed annually, both individually and as part of a people. Retelling the story keeps a chain of inheritance alive, sustaining Jews living both in Israel, and the Diaspora (dispersion/scattering) that marked the initial exile of the Jewish people. Since then, Jews have been expelled from other regions of the globe. Spain during the Inquisition. Pogroms and other political actions where they were pushed from homes established over centuries. And the Holocaust — the penultimate expulsion.

The word Passover (Pesach in Hebrew) refers to the “Passing Over” or “Po-say-ach” of the Angel of Death who was sent to strike down the firstborn sons of Egypt in a final show of strength by the god of the Hebrew people. The last of the ten plagues visited upon Pharaoh and his people, the ancient tale relates how God instructed Moses to have his people place lamb’s blood upon their doorposts as a sign to the Angel of Death to “pass over” their households, sparing Jewish children.

The story of the Exodus is one of passion and drama, brought to the screen by Cecile B. DeMille in his epic film, THE TEN COMMANDMENTS. Who can forget Charlton Heston as Moses, standing upon a boulder above terrified slaves who suspended common sense because Moses assured them that God would protect them as they crossed the emptied bed of the Red Sea, parted for their escape. The image of Moses standing with arms spread wide before terrified Hebrew slaves fleeing Pharaoh’s pursuing chariots in a mad dash to freedom is embedded in our psyche.

Yet, Passover Seders (the traditional pre-Passover dinner, where the story of the Exodus is retold) are themselves steeped in the generational memories of individual families. In GOLANSKI’S TREASURES, Max shares what occurred during one particular Seder celebrated by his family in Poland in the late 1920’s. So as not to spoil Max’s tale, let me share instead my own family’s Seder traditions.

As a family raised in the Conservative tradition we celebrated two nights with two Seders.  One was with my mother’s family, and the other with my father’s.  My mother’s family gathered at a lovely Jewish country club in Chicago hosted by her sister. Long tables accommodated the large family of aunts, uncles and cousins.  Seated opposite a cousin who blessedly did not like boiled egg whites, ours was a symbiotic relationship, for I didn’t like the yolks.  When the traditional boiled eggs were passed, we would quickly remove the yolks from the whites, and make a clandestine exchange of boiled egg pieces beneath the table according to preference.

Gefilte Fish and Beet Horseradish.

My father’s side of the family would gather for a Seder at my grandparent’s house.  Another large, extended family, we had an “adult’s table,” with satellite seating for the children. When I finally reached the age marking my matriculation to the “adult’s table,” my grandmother passed away. Several years went by during which my mother prepared wonderful Seders for our immediate family at home.  When my father’s sister decided to once again bring the entire family together my excitement at joining the “adult’s table” was quickly extinguished. Other cousins near my age had also advanced, so we simply sat at a newer version of “kiddy tables.”

At some point, my father’s older brother and older sister and their (now adult) children left the larger gathering for Seders with their own children (and grandchildren).  The baton was passed to my father to officiate. While nobody could hold a butcher’s carving knife to Dad in the kitchen (did I mention that my Grandpa Ross was a kosher butcher?), Seder leadership fed into Dad’s propensity for telling L-O-N-G versions of any story.  Each year our Seders became increasingly lengthy. To keep ourselves amused, the cousins (by then young adults) established a betting pool.  The one closest to calling the exact time it took Dad to finish won the pot.  At Dad’s last Seder before he died, I won. Of course, several cousins complained it was fixed, and as Dad took no offense upon learning of our friendly betting, I suspect he had become aware of our shenanigans and maybe even overheard my wager.  I’ll never know.

I’d love to hear favorite stories of memories from other people’s Seders, so please feel free to comment on this post and share them.  Don’t forget to check the GOLANSKI’S KITCHEN page on this blog for a new recipe!

"Old Country" photo in Poland/Russia of my Great Grandfather Louis (bearded) - my Grandpa Ross is on the left.

May your matzoh balls be fluffy, your brisket moist and tender, and the four glasses of kosher wine acceptable even to connoisseurs.  Warmly, Sue

(Please check out a wonderful post regarding the significance of retelling the Passover story of the Exodus by Dasee Berkowitz in the JTA blog of the American Jewish Congress listed under LINKS – JTA.)

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Speak Out!

12 Monday Mar 2012

Posted by Golanskis Treasures in anti-Semitism, Genocide, History, Holocaust

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Civil War, Crimes Against Humanity, Darfur, Genocide, Homs, Human Rights, Neimoller, peace, Rwandan, Sudanese, Syria, war

OUTRAGE as a moral imperative must sometimes become one’s compass when political policies and accepted definitions no longer suffice.  In today’s world there are many events and practices where I take issue: greed promoted over social responsibility, ongoing inequality between genders and groups, and self-centeredness trumping compassion (to name only a few).  While I grumble, like many others I’ve excused myself from participating more actively in the discussion so as to attend instead to the daily responsibilities of my life.

I wasn’t always so passive.  In years past I probably would have raised my voice while protesting beside fellow marchers.  Movements fueled by fearless passion for causes supporting: peace, civil rights, religious freedom, and egalitarianism (to name only a few).  Perhaps it is simply that I am older now, with a bit less fire in my belly.  Comfortable walking shoes have replaced my marching boots, and I’ve learned that many shades of grey color the world.  Life is not as clearly apparent as before.

So, what has changed?  Perhaps entering another time and another place in a life imagined through a fictional character has reawakened my impatience with allowing the world to right itself while I go about my business.  In my novel, the central character is a man struggling against the silence of complacency by speaking out against injustice.  Through recast eyes I have begun to see the world and my place in it somewhat differently.

My fictional character, 81-year-old Holocaust Survivor, Max Golanski perfected the art of blending into the horrific scenery of his times by not making waves.  It was a skill acquired as a protective device, an armor of invisibility shielding him from detection by those bent upon his destruction.  Inherent in Max’s choice to return to Poland to reconnect with his past was his choice to become visible once again.

Dropping his protective shield Max chose to speak for those who had died in full view of a world that should have come to their assistance, and instead turned a collective back.  He grew to believe that remaining invisible — silent in the midst of evil — was to abandon a joint responsibility of conscience and allow inaction to become action.

Like Max of my imagination I find it increasingly difficult to remain silent when witnessing attacks by armed forces against civilians throughout the world.  “Rules of Engagement,” don’t exist when governments attack their own people and sovereign countries have engaged in internal battles since the beginning of time.  In Darfur, the battles continue raging with 300,000 killed and almost 3 million displaced since 2003.  In Syria, the question remains as to whether a civil war is underway.  While the question is answered, men women and children in Homs are being killed simply because they live in harm’s way.

It is my personal hope that a global outcry will bring an end to the hostilities against these, and all groups of civilians under siege.  In civil wars, issues become even more complex as people of conscience must watch from the outside without involvement.  What is the right thing to do in such an instance?  The human thing.  As an individual I do not profess to have the answers, but believe it essential to pose the questions.

The fight against genocide will not be won as “Crimes Against Humanity” continue.  Our human family cannot afford to continue losing its humanity. Let us pray for peace among nations, and an end to violence against innocent civilians.  Take action by contacting your elected officials in Congress.  REMEMBER . . .

 First they came for the Communists and I did not speak out –
 because I was not a Communist.  Then they came for the Socialists and I did not speak out – 
because I was not a Socialist.  Then they came for the trade unionists and I did not speak out – 
because I was not a trade unionist.  Then they came for the Jews and I did not speak out – because I was not a Jew.  Then they came for me –
 and there was no one left to speak out for me.

– PASTOR MARIN NEIMOLLER –

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Seeking Jewish Roots

01 Thursday Mar 2012

Posted by Golanskis Treasures in anti-Semitism, History, Holocaust, Jewish Culture & Traditions, Jewish Genealogy, Poland, Sokoly

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

Bialystok, books, Claude Lanzmann, ellis island immigration, family, family lore, history, jewish genealogy, Poland, Shoah, shtetl, Sokoly, spertus museum, yiddish accent

SOKOLY (So-koh-wee)! The first time I heard the name of my grandfather’s birthplace was from my father’s cousin, Marie.  She lived in Paris, was a doctor, medical researcher, and reputedly a Polish Countess. Now what, you might ask, does my distant cousin and Polish Countess have to do with the story of Max Golanski?  

In 1989, when I traveled to Poland on behalf of Chicago’s Spertus Museum, I stopped in Paris to ask Marie to fill in missing blanks regarding our family heritage.  Grandpa Ross had arrived in the United States as a young man seeking to leave Russia rather than face the mandatory 12-year military service required of Jews.  (Non-Jews served four years for the Czar.)  He had followed his brother Willie to this country via Ellis Island, and couldn’t remember our family’s original last name, or why his brother had selected the surname Ross.  Fortunately, Cousin Marie remembered names and places that helped round out our family lore.

When Great Uncle Willie arrived at Ellis Island, Immigration officials asked where he was from and without hesitation he replied, “Białystok” (Bee-al-i-stok).  When asked his last name he said, “Białystokski” (Bee-al-i-stos-kee), which translates “from the Białystok region.”  Białystok shifted between  Russian and Polish rule over a period of several hundred years.

Immigration officials decided that Great Uncle Willie was either confused, or his name was too difficult to pronounce, so asked him to select “an American name.”  Of course, he didn’t know any “American names,” so when an attractive female Immigration worker walked past he pointed to her and asked, “Vat’s her name?” in a thick Yiddish accent.  “ROSS!” Without hesitation he said, “If it’s good enough for her, it’s good enough for me.  I’ll take it!”  And so my Eastern European Jewish family had a new, Scottish surname.

And SOKOLY?  Once Marie related the story regarding our family name she also remembered our family’s village.  Upon arriving in Poland I hired a driver to take me to the town (25 miles from Białystok).  Sokoly was a modest farming community of 3,500 people, distinguished by an impressive Catholic church in the town’s center. Surprisingly, my visit generated substantial excitement as word quickly spread that an American Jew was visiting.  People poured from their homes to meet me, saying “No ‘Shoah.’  We like Jews!”  I later discovered that the 9 1/2-hour film “Shoah,” by Claude Lanzmann, had recently found its way to Sokoly.  Residents seemed to feel that by convincing one Jew that not all Poles were anti-Semitic, they absolved themselves of participation in the Holocaust to all the Jews of the world.

Pulled into the kitchen of a humble farmer and his wife, I sat with them seeking the answer to my one burning question:  “What happened to the Jews of Sokoly?”  Their response was translated for me by my Polish driver, and the tape was donated to the Chicago Jewish Archives.

Years later, the Internet made possible more extensive research.  I was surprised to discover that Sokoly had been a renowned center of Jewish scholarship, claiming many doctors, scientists, literary scholars and other distinguished native sons and daughters.  The majority of Sokoly’s survivors immigrated to Israel.  A few others came to the States.  As one might expect, their stories were markedly different from the farmer’s original tale.  Folding differing perspectives of my impressions visiting in 1989, the farmer’s story, and researched testimony of Sokoly’s Jewish Survivors into a fictionalized tale gave birth to several chapters in GOLANSKI’S TREASURES.

As for my family’s Polish Countess?  A story onto itself for another time!

(Church in Sokoly, Poland - Photo by Leszek Zaremba)

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How a Book Comes to Be

28 Tuesday Feb 2012

Posted by Golanskis Treasures in Holocaust, Writing

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

books, jewish art, spertus institute, spertus museum, the writer's life, writing

I never intended to write about the Holocaust.  Perhaps (if possible) my character, Max Golanski sought me out.  His entry into my world came unannounced.  It was in the late 1990’s when I had one of those vivid, “right before waking” dreams we remember for a few minutes after opening our eyes. That’s where I was plunged into Max’s world, seeing the entire span of his life in one fell swoop.  It appeared like a rainbow, intact from the place where it leaps from the earth on one side, soars across the heavens, and returns to earth far from where it emerged.  I sprang from the bed, looked at Charles (my wonderful, albeit long-suffering partner), and sharply said, “Don’t speak to me!” As I raced to the computer to grab the images, ideas and story dancing inside, Charles sat perplexed. “But I didn’t do anything!” I recall him saying as I quickly jotted down a quick outline of an emerging book just as the story began to fade from my consciousness.  (Charles did forgive me.)

I had visited Poland on behalf of Chicago’s Spertus Institute for Jewish Studies as part of a Spertus Museum planning group seeking to put together an exhibition of Polish/Jewish art, but that was a decade earlier.  I wonder how long Max had languished somewhere deep inside waiting for the right moment to grab my attention, and wonder still what spurred his bursting forth at that moment.  

Having no idea as to what was involved in bringing a work of literary fiction from concept to fruition, I doodled away in my spare time over the years, writing whenever mood, or time allowed.  Some years time simply didn’t allow, and yet the insistent voice of this 81-year old Jewish man living on NYC’s Lower East Side jabbered away to me in Yiddish (which I don’t speak), or prodded me in a Yiddish-laden English (which I do).  He was not to be quieted, so I wrote.  

At times, I was frustrated by the amount of time needed to move the work forward. Now that the first draft is solidly in place and I am into revisions, I feel blessed for the process.  During those 12 years the Internet was born, and with it, access to historical data.  My writing also matured and I discovered professional avenues to hone my craft.  “The Writer’s Life” is not an easy one.  Not easy for those of us who create in isolation, or the poor souls (like my dear Charles) who allow us to exist beside them even as we travel to alternate realities.  Has anybody out there ever had a similar experience?  I’d love to hear about it!

Sue

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“Family is Everything!”

23 Thursday Feb 2012

Posted by Golanskis Treasures in Holocaust, Jewish Culture & Traditions

≈ 5 Comments

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blog, books, Eastern Europe, family, Final Solution, holocaust, Jewish, jewish genealogy, Poland, Shoah, shtetl, the Chosen People

“Family is everything!” Mama used to say.  Yet, I never realized just how important everything was until I had nothing.  Until my family was consumed by the hatred and misguided megalomania of a single lunatic, who crafted “The Final Solution” as the way to rid the world of all that was precious to me.

People generally understand the Holocaust as one of history’s darkest periods.  Yet, that understanding is framed by viewing footage from newsreels where the Jews of Eastern Europe become familiar as victims — black and white images of naked skeletal remains stacked up like kindling, or victims-in-waiting kneeling before open pits, Nazi soldiers standing behind them with rifles poised.  Or iconic images of a young boy with his hands raised above his head.

Then, of course, are the numbers.  The sheer volume of those destroyed in the first genocide where science was employed to systematically destroy those selected by a virtual killing machine.  6 million souls.  Two-thirds of Eastern Europe’s Jewish population.  Gone.  Murdered.

Yet, each of those 6 million were members of families like mine in a culture that lived and breathed family from every pore.  My family was much like yours, the only difference perhaps that we lived in shtels (Jewish villages) and cities in Poland.  We were born, lived, loved and laughed — just like your families.  We made our livings in a variety of ways, from working in farming communities to city butcher shops.  We sought our degrees in institutions of higher learning, studied art, became professionals, fell in love and married.  We debated the finer philosophical points raised by history’s great minds, and immersed ourselves in worship to the God who was the center of our existence.  We harbored the same hopes and dreams as every living soul.

Yet, as Jews, we stood in the same shadows of fear occupied by our ancestors from the moment we chose God, and he in turn chose us for our love of Him and dedication to his ways.  Being “The Chosen People,” was never easy, and when I was young I wished that God would choose somebody else for a change.  But me and my family — Mama and Popa, brother Izzy, sister Miri, wife Sarah, grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins – were born into times and circumstances where choosing and being chosen framed our existence.  Our choices defined our humanity, informed our destinies and shaped our relationships with God.

Like you, we were born into a world where God gave us the freedom to choose how to act, or react to the world around us.  Yes, “Family is everything,” but we are all extended family, aren’t we?  So, as family, I invite you to get to know more about my world, for within that world you may discover some pieces of your own.

A blog is a personal connection in today’s impersonal universe.  I will attempt to keep my scribe busy as she relates some of the stories of my life, but most can be found in the book she has been working on for the past 12 years.  Her book – MY book – is called “Golanski’s Treasures.”  Until it is ready to be brought forth into the world, perhaps we can become acquainted through this blog.  Feel free to ask questions, or join conversations.  No need to stand on formalities – speak right up!  This is a dialogue.  Speak your mind, but please be considerate of one another, me and my family, and your writer Sue Ross along the way.  It’s easy to stay in touch.  Just click on the “follow” button at the left and you’ll be notified of new posts.

Thank you,

Max Golanski

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Categories

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