After I survived the Holocaust in Poland, my mother, father, sister, and I moved to England, where we were generously accepted as we tried to move past the terrible years of World War II. We were among the few lucky ones who survived. So many did not. According to statistics, only about 2 percent of Polish Jews lived through the Holocaust.
Years later in 1953, I took my first trip to Israel as part of the English table tennis team to take part in the Maccabiah Games (Israeli Olympic Games). My knowledge of the country was scant, but I knew I was going to meet my aunt, uncle, and four cousins while I was there. I also expected to see a friend, Sylvia, whose family had survived the Holocaust as well and settled in Israel after the war. Her family were friends of my parents and used to visit us every summer in Poland over holidays before the war. There was another contact, Inka, whose mother had been a friend of my aunt Irka, my mother’s sister who died in Auschwitz.
The trip on the ship was a lot of fun. There were sports teams from various European countries, and many included Holocaust survivors like me. Among these were many Polish refugees, and we formed a kind of “Polish team.” Though we represented different countries, we stuck together throughout the trip.
I started to feel strangely moved and excited as we were coming closer to Israeli land, and I couldn’t go to sleep at all the night before we docked. I just stood by the ship’s rail and watched as we approached Haifa Harbor.
Upon arrival in Haifa, everybody was taken to the Maccabiah Village except me because I was picked up by my friend Sylvia to stay with her until the games started. She lived in Carmel (the upper part of Haifa) with a million-dollar view of the sea and sky! I remember noticing a few ships resting in the harbor and asking Sylvia whether WE had only a few ships. I realized that I said “we” because I considered Israel MY country, and that those were my country’s ships. It didn’t take me long to feel that I was home.
When the games started, I went to Tel Aviv to be with my aunt and uncle and meet my cousins. It so happened that it was Rosh Hashanah and, for the first time in my life, I attended not one but four dinners on one night where I met my cousins and their families.
When the games started I had to catch a bus to get to the venue where they were taking place. My aunt gave me a note for the bus driver to let me off at the right place. When I gave it to him, he announced to the whole bus that I was playing in the Maccabiah and to make sure to tell me where to get off the bus. Everybody was anxious to help me and immediately offered invitations to dinner and even had “a boy” for me. Luckily most passengers spoke English, as my Hebrew was nonexistent.
I spent two months in Israel and had the most wonderful time. I would have stayed forever, but my mother was not well, and I knew how much I was needed at home, so I went back to London, vowing I would come back and stay if I could find a job that required only speaking English.
Sadly, my mother passed away in 1956. It was a heartbreaking time for me.
In 1957 the Maccabiah Games were held again, and I was invited to participate. I decided that this was my chance to live in Israel, and I took it. The games that year were a much-improved affair and better organized. When they were over I found a job in Haifa where I could speak English. I stayed in an “Anglo-Saxon” hostel on the highest floor, from where I could admire the sea. I lived a very simple life but made many friends and visited my family in Tel Aviv often. Eventually I moved to Tel Aviv because I got a new and fascinating job at the American Embassy. There I met and married my husband, who was a Holocaust survivor from Bulgaria.
When our son Joe was about six years old, we came to the United States for one year due to a job my husband was offered. When that year was up it felt too difficult to move again. Joe had learned English and was doing well in school. I had a good job, and we didn’t want to uproot ourselves again, so we stayed in America. We have now been here for over 50 years—well over half of my life. But I still don’t feel “at home” here, even though I have a very comfortable life, and my family has grown since Joe got married, and I acquired a lovely daughter-in-law and then two granddaughters.
I have often thought about going back to Israel, but these days I only visit. I will always have the memories of the magical years I spent there. I miss those years very much. Living in Israel was wonderful, and I have never had the same feeling of belonging as I had there.
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