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Golanski's Treasures

~ a novel

Golanski's Treasures

Category Archives: Writing

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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Counting Blessings

29 Tuesday May 2012

Posted by Golanskis Treasures in History, Writing

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High School, Holiday, Memorial Day, Memories, Reunion, Social Networking, Vietnam, Vietnam War Memorial, writing

Looking out of the window of my office I am amazed by the beauty of the day. Hammering away (well, at least lightly touching) the keyboard before me, I find myself distracted from my manuscript — my eyes having been lured towards the beauty of a clear sky brushed by leaves swaying in gentle breezes as the Memorial Day weekend draws to a close.

Happily, I did finish revisions on yet another chapter today! While the next one looms large before me, I find myself satisfied, feeling a small measure of accomplished for the moment.  The view from my office is peaceful, and the breeze has been kind enough to pick up the perfume from my garden and deliver it through the open window filling the room.  The weeping willow’s leaves acknowledge my presence . . . .

Weeping Willow

Backyard – willow

It’s been a long week.  My partner, Charles had back surgery. Blessedly, all went well, and his strength and fortitude have been extraordinary — as has been the tremendous outpouring of support and affection of many loving friends, colleagues and family members.  Charles is my rock, and being rather on the small size, I can only do my best as his pebble.  For the skill of his surgeon and the grace of God I am beyond grateful — I bow my head before the trees swaying in the breezes outside my window as I whisper prayers of thanksgiving.

It is also Memorial Day, and the magic of social networking has made possible High School classmates joining online for a “virtual reunion.” How appropriate that it is this weekend we have come together to remember the pain and strain of passing through the portal of adolescence into maturity.  SUCH memories have come to the fore.  The joys of first loves, the pressures of studies, obstacles encountered, and parental expectations, sporting events and parties, friendships forged (lasting to this day). Moments when we individually and collectively discovered where and how we fit into the world revisited and magnified by the mirrors of one anothers’ reflections.

Vietnam War Memorial

– Vietnam War Memorial, Washington DC

In addition, it’s been a day when old acquaintances joined together for a collective sigh. Our numbers have been diminished, the price exacted by the years.  Some were lost to illness or accidents, which must be expected. Yet, several classmates died as fallen warriors — casualties of war, which NO generation should have to expect.  Their lives may have ended in the distant jungles of Vietnam, but their memories have been forever etched into time. We remember them.

And so, today I pause from my usual commentary to listen to the quiet, treasuring the moments between life’s ups, and life’s down.  The light outside my window is tinged by the waning remnants of a sun-kissed day. Next week we will once again revisit Max’s world.  Thank you for joining me in this most amazing journey.  Until then, may your lives be gentle and your memories rich and joyous.

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Letting Go

18 Friday May 2012

Posted by Golanskis Treasures in History, Writing

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books, Empty Nest Syndrome, Jules Verne, Manuscript, Reading, writing, Yiddisha Mama

empty nest syndrome

“HOW?” I asked myself recently, “How is it that I used to reach for my trusty iPad every morning when I could pry my eyes open to work on second draft revisions to my manuscript?” Now, it’s all I can do to even think about moving mind and fingers towards such a goal?”  Then, after Mother’s Day, it hit me.  “Empty Nest Syndrome.”  We all know how parents (particularly mothers) struggle once their children leave for college, life elsewhere with a new spouse, travel abroad, or setting up a first apartment.  Never having had the good fortune to have children, might a similar phenomenon be at play as I look towards a time when I won’t be spending time with Max?  Have I become a Yiddisha Mama through the process of birthing a book?

YEP! That has to be it.  While all writers confront the day when no further meaningful edits and important changes can be made to tenderly crafted pages there comes a time when “THAT’S A WRAP!” seem the only logical words left. While we can edit until the proverbial cows come home, reality must step in so we can send our “children” off into the world.  Then, all we can do is stand back and await breathlessly the (hoped for) applause, or (dreaded) criticisms of the public as our hearts are laid open for scrutiny.

OR, is it possible that writing a (good) book resembles reading a good book? THAT must be it!  I recall years ago slowing down the pace of my reading when enraptured by an engrossing story.  As the end drew near (apparent because I checked ahead to see how many pages remained), I’d slow down.  Rather than racing through to see what happened next, each word, phrase, and chapter became all the more precious.

Cover of "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (B...

Cover via Amazon

One book in particular comes to mind. Sometime between pre-pubescence and adolescence I was reading Jules Verne’s 20,000 LEAGUES UNDER THE SEA.  The adventures of the mysterious Captain Nemo had pulled me into a magnificent world of fantasy made factual.  The immensity of childhood angst was lost amid an endless sea of fantastic characters and situations. Daily life faded into obscurity when weighed against those played out so many fathoms beneath the ocean’s surface.

Once I complete my own novel’s revisions and hand it off to a professional for a solid “whooping” to lift my manuscript to its loftiest potential, it will be out of my hands. Then, the adventure and magic of creating a new world and living within another’s skin will vanish. I’ll be left alone, without Max to serve as my conscience, filtering the world’s magnificence and injustices through his far more experienced eyes.  Sigh . . . . Empty Nest Syndrome.  I will no longer anticipate that delicious sense of curiosity as to “what will happen next?” (as so often happened while Max’s story unfolded before me).  I’ll be finishing my favorite book.  Sigh.

But, WAIT!  Even after this second swipe, I need to print the entire manuscript and read every word aloud to make certain that it can stand on its own. I’ve been assured by industry experts that there is no better way than reading aloud to test whether the story that has danced in my head for the past 12 years comes across as clearly and magically as it was whispered to me.  Why, in that case I’m far from finished!  I can test drive it while bonding with my cat and dog (who don’t care what I’m saying as long as I’m directing attention towards them).  WHEW!

And then? Once revisions are in place, I’ve read it aloud making changes here and there — THEN what? The copy editor will assuredly have reams of notes as to how I can improve the manuscript — so I will have to revise it yet one more time.  Oh joy, oh rapture!  Max isn’t leaving me just yet, although even with such delays, the time will come when just like a parent packing up a darling child striking out on its own, I must come to terms with a hole in my life.  Of course, Max and I will stay in touch.  AND I’ll inherit a new room to decorate and fill with other things!

Whatever will I do with all that room?  Why, write another book, of course! And the subject matter? I’ve been wondering what Max’s life was like between his 81st year in 1992, and his liberation from Auschwitz in 1945. Those years aren’t explored in GOLANSKI’S TREASURES, and I’m most curious. I’ll bet if I asked Max he’d be more than forthcoming, and we could hang out together for years to come.

Of course, that means I’d better get busy and finish this book if I want to get to the next one!  Gotta dash . . . I have another five chapters to revise before printing and reading the whole manuscript out loud!  Until next time . . . .

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In Honor of Mothers

14 Monday May 2012

Posted by Golanskis Treasures in Jewish Culture & Traditions, Jewish Genealogy, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Austria, books, family, Grandparent, Hungary, Jewish, Memoir, Mother, Mother's Day, Poland, Tribute to Mothers

As a special Mother’s Day tribute, I thought it only right to give a little bit of background on the character of Max’s mother, Pepe.  How she took form, and the qualities she embraces that made her a composite of the “Yiddisha Mama” touted in song and legend.

The original Pepe Golanski – Bessie (Pepe) Stein, my maternal grandmother.

Every character in the book has been named to honor family, friends “close as family,” and/or historic figures who may not be popularly known.  All of the children, and most of the current characters with whom Max interacts are currently alive.  The others hold people who have graced the planet in memory.

Max’s mother Pessel was actually named for my maternal grandmother, who was Austrian-Hungarian/Romanian by birth, and came to this country with her husband and first two (of nine) children.  Her husband’s name was Max (for whom my primary character is named, although my maternal grandfather died years ago — one of the exceptions to my naming of characters).  When Pessel arrived in the US, she was given the AMERICAN name of Bessie, which she begrudgingly accepted, although she was never comfortable within its skin. Compromising, she deferred to her nickname — Pepe — which is carried throughout the book.

So . . . to review.  Max is named after my maternal grandfather, and Max’s MOTHER is named after my maternal grandMOTHER.  (Ahh, the luxury of “poetic license” allowed writers!)  With me so far?

In the book, fictional Pepe was born to be a mother (as was my actual grandmother).  She embraced every opportunity to love, teach and support each of her children: Moishe (Max), Izzy (Isadore — incidentally, named after my own father), and Miri (Miriam), named after my maternal Aunt Mary.  Her husband Julius (Max’s father) is a kosher butcher.  In my family the real Julius was my paternal grandfather, who was, in fact such a butcher.  STILL with me?  

As a Mother’s Day tribute, I’d like to share a snippet from a scene in the book to bring you back to Max’s world as a child growing up in Poland — when the Jewish world of his existence was still balanced (however precariously), and logically unfolded within an environment filled and defined by cultural traditions, faith and the love of family.  It was a place where a Yiddisha Mama was revered, serving as the center of home, family and community.  So, without further ado, it is my honor to introduce Pepe Golanski, butcher’s wife, and Max Golanski’s beloved mother . . . .

(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.)

While Julius worked, Pepe would chat with the ladies who came by just as much to schmooze and trade recipes as to purchase meat.  Once she had completed her chores both in the shop and the family’s second floor apartment, she’d join her contemporaries in discussing the latest gossip of the day.  Always taking charge of such discussions to make certain the women in her shop shared information, rather than malicious rumors, Pepe kept a firm grip on such conversations, chiding those who sought out juicy details that might be hurtful to others.

“So, nu?  Marta?” she’d say.  “You wouldn’t sleep as soundly as you do each night if you didn’t know the details of Yonkel’s failing as a husband to poor Chava?”

Pepe’s belief that petty rumors were unnecessary, unkind and unworthy of attention made her greatly respected throughout the neighborhood.  Her use of discretion was legend and she was fond of reminding everybody that, “Small minds produce the world’s biggest headaches.” A traditional balaboste, Pepe was a highly disciplined housewife and adoring mother.

“You’d think the sun rose and set upon the heads of those three children,” Julius would often say, shaking his OWN head when she’d over-indulge them.

“But, my beloved husband, the sun DOES rise and set upon their heads,” she’d reply, her face alive with a mother’s love. Yet, she was also the undisputed disciplinarian of the family.

“Children, off to school with you,” Pepe would announce the second the last parcel of dark rye bread had disappeared from the table and her husband had left for work.

“Miri, I told you that dress needed a few stitches at the hem.  A lady you should be.  I’ve never known such a girl as you.  Now run and change.  Moishe, those fingernails look like those of beggar.  Do I need to take a brush to them myself?  Go scrub them again.  I’ll not have a child of mine going to school with dirty fingernails.  Izzy!  Now where is that child?” she’d mumble, full well knowing that her eldest had already bounded down the stairs to wait for his siblings in front while he sought to catch a peek of the attractive girl who lived next door.

Moishe remembered how the delicate fragrance of baking challah, and meat-filled, sweet cabbage wafted from her apron.  Perfumed by onions, Pepe’s large, peasant hands were moist and supple from folding schmaltz into her chopped liver.  But, Moishe most loved her laugh.  It shook loose from deep inside until her earrings danced, tears flowed from her eyes, and her ample bosom bounced up and down. What Pepe lacked in a formal education was more than adequately covered by her more pragmatic schooling as a perceptive student of life.

“People are my books,” she told her children, and would refer frequently to her living library when fielding questions about the world.  Pepe’s mish-mosh of characters seemed to hold answers from whatever might ail, to putting together a school report, to the most attractive ways of braiding the flaming red hair of the rambunctious Miri.

Born Pessel Libe she was raised in Galicia in the town of Shoenfolo in Maremosesiegatz, where she spent her childhood swimming in the river that divided Austria from Hungary.  Pessel was her Jewish, or Yiddish name, but she preferred her nickname, Pepe.  In addition to being the best swimmer and fastest runner, she was also known for her culinary skills, the result of early training by her own mother, Chana, who was well accomplished in the art of Jewish cooking.

“Pessel, to catch a husband, you should spend more time on your brisket and less time looking in the mirror!” Chana would say.

As catching a husband was top on every young Jewish girl’s list, Pepe watched intently, taking mental notes of what made up a “pinch,” or constituted a “dash.”  While not the sole reason, her cooking was certainly part of the reason she so quickly won the affection of a husband who was partner, provider, and father to her children.

I dedicate today’s entry to Max’s Pepe — my maternal grandmother, Pepe (who died before my birth) — my own beloved mother, Rose (whom I miss dearly since her passing several years ago at the age of 91. Mom would have so enjoyed being part of this journey) — and all mothers who bring children into the world, and lead them through its often confusing waters.

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!

 – Remembering Mom.  Rose Ross with Baby Sue (a long time ago.  My skin was definitely too big for me).

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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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“So, What’s it About?”

19 Monday Mar 2012

Posted by Golanskis Treasures in Writing

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Tags

authors, blog, books, creativity, literature, novel, publishing, readers, synopsis, the writer's life, writing

After working for over twelve years to complete the first draft of my novel, it’s been exciting to tell the world that my labor of love is drawing nearer to publication.

Whether that means a gifted agent will swoop in and embrace Max’s story, making a case for its publication by a traditional publishing house, OR I follow the route of independent publishing so many authors are now choosing quite successfully is yet to be determined.

In either case, I’ve been delighted by the interest expressed by those who’ve learned about my work. The obvious first question is generally, “So, what’s it about?” and nothing gives me greater pleasure than responding! With that in mind, I realized that sharing an overview of the story on my blog was past due and have added a page presenting the novel’s SYNOPSIS.

It’s reassuring to know that there is a lively community of inquisitive minds who read voraciously and enjoy getting “sneak previews” to a work of art in progress. There is still a long road ahead.  From completing the first draft to having a final manuscript ready for publication entails further revisions, research, and expert guides to navigate unfamiliar waters.

Writers produce their work in the quiet of solitude, which (while necessary) can also be a very lonely place.  We write for the love of writing, and the hope that the images that dance through our minds will add something to the human dialogue. Having a supportive partner, friends, other writers, and all of YOU egging me on truly makes it all the more worthwhile.

Please take a moment to check out the SYNOPSIS just added to the blog (top of the page).  I so appreciate your questions, comments, support, and partnership in the process of building a community around GOLANSKI’S TREASURES!

Many Thanks!

Sue

P.S.  If you’re enjoying thus far, please “Like” posts and “Follow & Join the Community” in the left-hand column.  If you click the “Follow” button you’ll not only get posts automatically (once/week), but will help build a strong community of support.

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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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  • anti-Semitism
  • Genocide
  • History
  • Holocaust
  • Jewish Culture & Traditions
  • Jewish Foods
  • Jewish Genealogy
  • Poland
  • Sokoly
  • Writing
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Recent Posts

  • Friendships – Part Two
  • Friendships – Max’s Gang
  • Counting Blessings
  • Letting Go
  • In Honor of Mothers

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Archives

  • June 2012
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  • April 2012
  • March 2012
  • February 2012

Holocaust

  • Fox News: 60 Years After Liberation, Dachau Survivor and American GI Meet

Holocaust & Genocide

  • Alliance for the Study of the Holocaust and Genocide
  • Genocide Watch
  • Tauber Holocaust Library and Education Program

Holocaust Museums

  • Illinois Holocaust Museum & Education Center
  • Museum of Jewish Heritage
  • Museum of Tolerance
  • United States Holocaust Museum

Jewish Holidays

  • Diva Indoors
  • JTA – Passover
  • Story of Passover

Jewish Museums

  • Skirball Cultural Center
  • The Jewish Museum
  • The Magnes Collection of Jewish Art and Life
  • The Museum of Family History

Jewish Studies

  • Spertus: A Center for Jewish Learning and Culture

Yiddish

  • Copenhagen Yiddish Study Circle
  • Educational Program on Yiddish Culture
  • Encyclopedia Britannica Yiddish Literature
  • Mamaloshen – Mother Tongue
  • Nonesuch News and Reviews
  • Philip Witriol

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