A First

I have never reposted a link to another person's blog on my blog before. But when a previous professor of mine turned friend quotes me in her blog and causes me to tear up because of the eloquent way that she fit my quote into her writing I am unable to hold back from sharing.

She writes of her recent trip to the Dachau Concentration Camp.

Click Here to be moved and read her story.

Daffodils

Since having my own home and gardens I have had daffodils and have enjoyed them sprouting up in early spring, often in between snowflakes. They offer the first glimpse of spring with their bright colors of hope and rebirth.

During my visit (a year and a half ago) to the U.S. Holocaust Museum’s gift shop I was exposed to seeing daffodils in a new light: as a living symbol and tribute to the 1.5 million Jewish children who were killed in the Holocaust. The daffodil is yellow like the yellow Star of David the Jews were forced to wear and it also has six petals similar to the six points of the Jewish Star. In the gift shop, I saw and purchased a yellow and black beaded bracelet for my daughter (although after returning home I learned it was too large for her wrist and just right for mine.) They were being sold to raise funds for The Daffodil Project inAtlanta, Georgia. To learn more visit their site: http://www.daffodilproject.net 

Salusia & Milius with a nurse?

The other day the weather and timing were perfect for me to plant the 40 daffodil bulbs I had purchased to plant on the hill behind my new house. Ever since I had bought them weeks before the Daffodil Project had crossed my mind. I liked the idea of putting significance behind my daffodils. The morning of planting, hours before the actual planting, I began thinking about Salusia and Milius, my grandmother’s niece and nephew who were lost/disappeared during the Holocaust. All that was left of them, that anyone is aware of is photos with notes written on the back that my great aunt mailed to her parents in New York from Poland. Their fates remain unknown.

However, when the planting began, with my own son by my side, I forgot to think about those two sweet children I only known from photos and focused on the mosquitos, the steepness of the hill and how many 40 actually is….A LOT! But during the digging of yet another 4-5” deep hole Salusia and Milius flashed in my mind, then I hit a rock. “Aw come ON!” I dug up the rock only to discover it’s shape resembled a heart. I chose to place the rock over the bulb I planted, I may not be able to locate the rock again when the brush grows in, and hopefully the bulb will grow around it, but it was at that moment I remembered why my heart was planting 40 daffodil bulbs. 

The Power of Personal Accounts of History

I think it was when I began working in the domestic violence field that I learned and experienced the impact of hearing a survivor share his/her story firsthand.

I’ve had the honor on a few occasions to hear Holocaust survivors speak. I wish I had kept track of whom I’ve heard but unfortunately, if they did not have a book to sell, I didn’t write their name down anywhere permanent and for this I regret. Pieces of their stories remain with me and I wish I had their name alongside.

I’ve heard Gerda Weismann Klein, Peter Feigl and others speak and today I had the honor to hear Sam Harris speak. After hearing a Holocaust survivor speak I always rush to the line of where they are signing books, shaking hands and meeting the audience. Some people’s first instinct is to show their camera and ask for a photo. Others thank them for sharing their story. I always say the same words; often in between tears that I have yet to learn how to stop from coming. “Thank you for speaking for those who are unable to speak for themselves.” I then go on to tell them that they are speaking for my family; my grandmother’s brother and sister and her children.

Each time my body shakes, I take slow, deep breaths and I feel the power of meeting someone that makes me feel closer to the relatives I never met because of Hitler. I feel even closer to them than I did when my grandmother was alive. I never heard my grandmother speak of her siblings who were left behind in Poland when she emigrated in 1928 at the age of 11. I think her pain was too much to speak about her only sister, with whom I do know she was close with.

If the survivor is from Poland I feel an extra connection, as if have met my Polish relatives. There is no way to know if Sam Harris’ parents knew my great aunt and great uncle or their children I don’t have names for. But as Sam Harris, age 77, hugged me I was overcome with the emotion of hugging a long lost relative. It’s as if the spirits of 6 million Jews are surrounding the survivors who speak on their behalf.

And in the end I always feel hope. Hope that miracles do take place in the middle of unthinkable atrocities. After all, none of the survivors I’ve heard speak have attributed their survival to anything but a miracle or two.

Running and What it Means to Me

Two weeks ago I participated in the Sandy Hook Run for the Families virtually. I sent in my donation, agreed to run 3.1 miles and should receive a t-shirt soon. Previous posts go into further detail so I will spare you here, and will provide more details on how amazing the run turned out in another post.

Prior to the run a local radio deejay got word on what I was doing and asked to interview me on the radio. I knew I was not interested in doing that, but had to dig inside myself to put into words why not and here is part of my reply to him:

For me this is just me going out for my weekend run and asking friends (and friends of friends I suppose) to join me. Every runner runs for a purpose. Some runs are to reach goals, some are to prove to ourselves that we can, indeed, go farther, or tackle a new challenge. This run just happens to be for the families in Sandy Hook. This wonderful country of ours gets smaller with tragedy and so on March 23, I, and others, will simply be going out for a run that is purposely for the children whose lives were lost too soon, many of them the same age as our own children.

And it’s true, every day I run for a reason.

I’ve been doing a lot of genealogy research lately, with a focus this past year being on my grandmother’s sister, husband, children and my grandmother’s brother who were living in Poland at the time of the Holocaust who undoubtedly were killed as a result of Hitler’s prejudice. Just recently I have found new answers. In a little more than a week I will be leaving for what I am continually referring to as a once in a lifetime trip to DC to meet up with my aunt. I am hoping for laughter, a bit of sightseeing, but the purpose of the trip is to spend two days (at least) at the United States Holocaust Museum. I’ve wanted to go for many years, and always envisioned it to be a solo trip as part of a family vacation. Planning the trip with my mom’s sister and hopefully finding more answers about our family’s history makes the idea of going alone no longer an option nor desire.

Tomorrow is Holocaust Remembrance Day and “Today I ran for all those who were killed during the Holocaust and dreamed of running away to freedom.”

Running, to me, isn't about being fast, it's just about being able to have the freedom and physical health to run.