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45 pages

English

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The discovery of a hidden diary containing mysterious sketches leads to a personal and intriguing journey through the Saar Valley, London, New York and Israel. As a clinical psychologist and child of Holocaust Survivors, Dr.Wolgroch provides essential reading for the Second Generation and readers interested in learning about the pervasive effects of the Holocaust on four generations of one family. The narrative is personal, inspiring, informative and a good read. You won't be able to put it down.

Sujets

Histoire

History

Western

Europe

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Publié par	eBookIt.com
Date de parution	21 février 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781456601850
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0300€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Creation Out of Nothingness

Creatio Ex Nihilo

by
David Wolgroch

Copyright 2011 David Wolgroch,
All rights reserved.

Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com

ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0185-0

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Preface
Creation Out of Nothingness is certainly not the first book written about the Holocaust, but it might be among the last. The plethora of informative material about this atrocity attests to society’s desperate attempts to come to terms with its significance. Academic researchers, politicians, novelists, and even anti Semites have carefully extracted relevant facts and presented them in chronological order so that we can learn, understand, and reach conclusions. Even Holocaust survivors and their offspring have courageously shared their experiences with others.

It would have been nice if my childhood had proceeded unhindered by the pervasive influence of the past. Mom and Dad would have waited until I was deemed mature enough, sat me down in a comfortable armchair, and told me about their dark past in an organised manner. But, life is not like that.

Instead, tales of their experiences emerged almost randomly without much consideration for accuracy, chronology, or relevance. I knew, for instance, about Dad’s liberation way before I was told about his experiences in the Warsaw Ghetto. Frequently, the significance of events is revealed in what is left unsaid, more than what is overt. Some children of Holocaust survivors, the second generation, have called this ‘the black box’.

So, if while reading Creation Out of Nothingness you find yourself confused about the timing of events, the association between a particular event and a specific person, or the distinction between actual events and conjecture, know that you are experiencing some of what it is like living with this legacy.

Creation out of Nothingness illustrates the personal significance of the Holocaust Legacy across four generations of one family: my family. However, it would not surprise me if other members of the second generation find themselves highlighting certain passages that evoke memories of their own experience. Notwithstanding, Creation Out of Nothingness is a story of universal significance, with which everyone can identify. It is a story of human tragedy, survival, love, humour, angst, and care. It is told from the heart.

It took me eight years to write. Actually, wrote most of it within several months; the remaining years were spend deliberating over the final chapter. During this period nothing much happened. During this period a lot happened. Unbeknown to me, my father, Chaim, was preparing his own narrative describing his harrowing Holocaust experiences. He had recruited someone to help him write I Summons the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob to Court. When the first ghost-writer succumbed to the bare dreadfulness of dad’s vivid testimony, another was found. The same occurred with her. Hence, I Summons remained unfinished, unrefined, and uncensored.

Dad sent me and my brother, Mike, a copy in the hope that we could procure a publisher. No luck there. The manuscript, on the surface, appeared as if it required extensive revision in order to correct obvious errors in grammar, spelling and format. But, I had decided that it was complete and set out to retype the manuscript myself. Except for some minor alterations, Dad’s simple testimony remained as direct, powerful, and unflinching as he felt. Despite this, it was much harder than I had anticipated. Emotionally, I could manage to retype only several pages at a time before feeling overwhelmed. Strangely, my fingers became stiff, my eyes watered, and my mind wandered…At these moments I sought solace in mindless television programmes, or called a friend to talk about nothing important. Alternatively, I cruised the nearby shopping mall to seek reassurance in everyday humanity by noticing young children effortlessly gliding on wheeled shoes, young girls excitedly chatting about a particular boy who had blushed at their party, or an elderly man sharing the remaining portion of his ice cream with a strange dog leashed to a post.

For me, personally, the writing of this book served a vital, if not belated, therapeutic function. I hope it does the same for you. Clearly, this book will not answer all of your questions about the Holocaust. In fact, it may produce more troubling thoughts. But, you may not feel the need to ask.
CHAPTER I
I knew it would be an extraordinary find the moment I touched it. It was tightly wrapped in brown paper within a clear plastic pouch bound with a rubber strap that had long lost its’ intended elasticity. The band snapped upon pulling it open allowing the bag to inflate with air. Gently, I unwrapped the surrounding packaging to find palm-sized leather bound booklet. On the cover was engraved the word “ Tagebuch ”. My basic German understood this to mean Daily Journal.

I hesitated while contemplating the find held securely in my left hand. It was heavier than expected for its’ small size. Modern technology has confounded any real association between significance and size. I wondered why Mom felt a need to hide this object from the rest of the family. Guilt overcame me. What was I doing in Mom’s flat, alone? What was I looking for among her personal things? Only nine days had past since her funeral. She died in her sleep. In this she was fortunate, I have been told.

Born in 1929 as Erika Kushner in Gelsenkirchen, Germany, she was only 69. Sara, Mike and I had already located the meagre items of value left to us. There was enough to pay for her funeral expenses and maybe a bit more. Mom was not a rich woman. The flat had been heavily mortgaged and there were expenses to pay.

Looking around me it seemed that nothing had been disturbed, although I know that I had spent the past two days investigating every corner, drawer and box in the flat. Unaware, I had been carefully replacing all the items as if to hide my illicit liberties.

Mom’s presence was all around me. Her small flat was cluttered with objects arranged in mismatched order preferring meaning to appearance. Objects of practicality intermingled unashamedly with things of sentimental value. The cabinet was packed with old photos, loose stationery and a collection of red Rude Vale 78rpm records. A tacky pink tinted bowl on the shelf above me contained an outdated black and white passport picture of me; a souvenir bottle-opener from Charleston, South Carolina; a nail-clipper; three white buttons and small coins; used stamps and a solitary knitting needle.

There were cardboard boxes of all sizes stuck into every available niche, barely noticeable to the unaccustomed eye. I would relentlessly badger Mom into allowing me to discard some of these seemingly unnecessary containers, to no avail. “If you would get rid of these boxes you’d have a lot more room in here.” I would plead. Mom’s response was adamantly “Don’t touch!” She refused any interference in her personal possessions with the defensive reluctance of an egocentric artist resenting criticism of her unfinished work. The various boxes were generically labelled ‘STUFF’ as if to satisfy an outdated custom for order. Somehow, however, she always seemed to know where to find things within the chaos.” Mom, do you have any plastic glue?” I might ask. “Oh, yah, it’s in the small shoe box mit the white cover under the phone” she’d definitively respond without hesitation. Or, she might request that I fetch something for her like an old x-ray, a particular sweater or a casserole dish. “David, can you reach up and get the blue scarf in the box in the shelf above my red coat?” Surprisingly, she was very organised.

One drawer contained various bills, receipts and correspondence arranged according to date with clips and rubber bands. There were also clippings from newspapers and journals dealing with every possible concern that may prove helpful. Among these were informative articles on purchasing a television or washing machine, explanations of various medical conditions and even an article on burial rights and expenses.

Another drawer contained a virtual pharmacy of medications for ailments that might be encountered. Many of these were outdated. Some were even empty, perhaps for show. Mom could always be counted on to have the appropriate pill or lotion for all of our ailments. Most, however, concerned Mom’s constant struggle with headaches, back pain and sleep. Only recently did she include pills prescribed to her for cancer. From this she never recovered.

I suddenly realised that Mom’s preoccupation was not with order but was to be prepared for any eventuality. Mom was even prepared for the unlikely event of being ousted from her own home. She never unpacked.

It was this thought that was on my mind during her funeral. Was it only in death that she finally found home? In the eulogy, I spoke of her incessant search for a home. Since age five (or six) she was forced into hiding from Nazi persecution. In fact, my precise words were “…from those fuck’n Nazis.” It just came out. I could’ve said “dammed” or “cursed” but only “fuck’n” came to mind. People attending the funeral were very polite in understanding my unfortunate choice of words. Sara and Mike, however, understood the deep frustration we all felt about Mom’s insecurity.

We knew few details of her traumatic past. It was partly overshadowed by Dad’s vivid accounts of the concentration camps. Mom rarely talked about her experiences during the war. We knew that she had been hidden in various farmhouses in Germany, as a C