My dad was a survivor of both Auschwitz and Buchenwald. After liberation, as he traveled home to Mukačevo, he left a message in every city along the way for anyone in the family who had survived. The message was that he was on his way home, and all who survived should join him there. My sister and I got the message in Prague and somehow knew that he was living in our grandparents’ home.
The people who were living in our house wouldn’t even open the door when my dad knocked. My grandparents’ home had been taken over by Soviet soldiers. They allowed my father to live in one of the apartments upstairs. My sister and I were the only ones to come home. Our joy was great, but our sadness was great as well.
By January 1952, we were living in Brooklyn, New York. Dad collapsed at his workplace and was taken to Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan, where he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. They operated on him, and he stayed in the hospital for several weeks. Once home, he was well for many months. I worked evenings, which permitted me to stay at home almost all day. My sister was married, but was always over to help when needed.
In February of 1953, my father collapsed on the street. This time, he was taken to Kings County Hospital in Brooklyn. He was in a semi-coma. I was working, but I could still get time off to see him on visiting days. At that time, visiting hours were one hour only, two or three days during the week. Each time my sister and I came to visit, we would place our faces to his lips, and he would kiss us. That was all he could muster up, but that told us that he was alive and loved us.
At his funeral, I think I was totally out of it—unaware and uncaring about what was going on. However, when the casket was rolled past me, I was in terrible pain, which stayed with me for many days or perhaps weeks. I felt bad that I had not been able to spend more time with him, although I knew it had not been an option according to the hospital policy. Still, it hurt.
For most of my life since then, I have only attended funerals of my family members and some very loved friends or their very close loved ones. Seeing a casket rolled past me brings that pain right back.
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