Echoes of Memory

Lessons Lost

In 1948, my father, sister, and I were sponsored by my family living in New York City and obtained visas to immigrate to the United States.

Guilt

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.

Arriving in America

We were now together in New York and had escaped from Germany, but our problems were not over.

My Brother Was an Only Child

My Stepfather

“The big fight will be on the radio tonight,” my stepfather said. “We can listen. It will not be for long.” I tried to comprehend what was happening. He didn’t speak directly to me very often, and almost never about something we would do together.

Aunt Franzi and Uncle Joszi

When the Nazis entered Vienna, my father was killed, my brother Manfred was sent to England on a Kindertransport, and my mother and I fled to the United States in early 1941.

Ebbets Field

Baseball is a part of my earliest memories. It was the path for a “refugee” to feel accepted as just another kid. I was an obsessive child—and skilled with numbers—so following baseball felt natural. I devoured team standings and batting averages.

A Timely Thought

The world would be a much better place if love were the driving force of our existence

Longings

I am standing now at the railroad station of the small village where I reside with a Polish family.

Forlornly

To endless days On lonely avenues.