When I received this assignment with this title, there was no doubt in my mind what my subject would be. Several occasions crossed my mind as occasions of great joy, but the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became of my first choice.
An article by Washington Post columnist E. J. Dionne Jr. during the pope’s visit to Washington, DC, in 2015 touched me deeply and brought back some old memories. During World War II I was a child in Poland. I am Jewish, and I wanted to live—which was contrary to what the German occupiers had in mind. After a few close calls where we had to hide to avoid being caught and killed or transported to a concentration camp, my brave mother purchased false identity papers from a Catholic priest for my baby sister, me, and herself. She then took us to a town where we were not known and where we would go by our new assumed names and religion. My part was to go to school, attend church, and act like a Catholic child. I was eight years old and had no knowledge of this religion.
On the outskirts of a small village near Vichy, France, Looms the antediluvian castle the Château des Morelles Housing not grand dukes and duchesses But children from Germany, France, and Italy—waiting Lost from their individual families Scattered by the Third Reich. They eat their meager food Pretending it is the feast of royalty.
The first person to come to the United States from my family was my elder sister Jacqueline, who was hired by the United Nations as a secretary. It was in 1953. I was not even 15, and it made me dream of America, which I had discovered through movies, like How to Marry a Millionaire, with the beautiful skyline of New York City and Marylin Monroe.
I remember three moments of great joy in my life. The first one was the day we were liberated.
My mother pined for the Adriatic Sea. Everything in that sea was so much better than the sea off the coast of Tel Aviv.
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.
There have been many moments in my adult life when I have had to make a decision. Sometimes, I had to choose one option from a list of many. Sometimes, I had only two bad options. And, rarely, I had two good ones.
The Vltava River, called the Moldau in German, is the longest river in the Czech Republic, running along the Bohemian forests and then meeting the Elbe at Melnik flowing toward Prague. It is called the Czech national river.
As we got closer to America, the sea became smooth and life returned to normal. The SS Nieuw Amsterdam finally entered New York Harbor on the evening of November 8, 1948.
Listen to or read Holocaust survivors’ experiences, told in their own words through oral histories, written testimony, and public programs.
