• Home
  • About Sue Ross, Author
  • Golanski’s Kitchen
  • Synopsis

Golanski's Treasures

~ a novel

Golanski's Treasures

Tag Archives: Poland

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).

Rate this:

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • Reddit
  • Red Room
  • LinkedIn
  • Print
  • Pinterest
  • Tumblr
  • More
  • Email

Like this:

Like Loading...

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.

Rate this:

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • Reddit
  • Red Room
  • LinkedIn
  • Print
  • Pinterest
  • Tumblr
  • More
  • Email

Like this:

Like Loading...

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)

Rate this:

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • Reddit
  • Red Room
  • LinkedIn
  • Print
  • Pinterest
  • Tumblr
  • More
  • Email

Like this:

Like Loading...

“Family is Everything!”

23 Thursday Feb 2012

Posted by Golanskis Treasures in Holocaust, Jewish Culture & Traditions

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

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

Rate this:

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • Reddit
  • Red Room
  • LinkedIn
  • Print
  • Pinterest
  • Tumblr
  • More
  • Email

Like this:

Like Loading...

Categories

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

Recent Posts

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

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Blog Stats

  • 7,849 hits

Archives

  • June 2012
  • May 2012
  • 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

Blog at WordPress.com.

  • Follow Following
    • Golanski's Treasures
    • Join 46 other followers
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • Golanski's Treasures
    • Customize
    • Follow Following
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar
 

Loading Comments...
 

    %d bloggers like this: