A Link in the Chain of Witness

I used to say that I was obsessed with the Holocaust. Kind of a curious thing to say, I know—but as the granddaughter of two Holocaust survivors who never spoke about their experiences, I was desperate to know what they had gone through, to try to make sense of the incomprehensible.

My grandparents, Goldie and Al, had been childhood sweethearts in their hometown of Nove Davidkovo, a small village near Munkács, Czechoslovakia. I knew that Goldie survived Auschwitz, Al survived Hungarian labor camps, and my father, Marty, was born in a DP camp in Germany after the war, but that was about it. I knew I had lost countless relatives—great-grandparents, great-aunts and uncles, cousins—and didn’t know any other third generation survivors (“3G”) outside of my own family. 

I was entirely on my own in my quest to learn, so in typical firstborn-daughter-overachiever fashion I devoured every book, film, and testimony I could get my hands on, and even visited Auschwitz in an attempt to fill the void. I learned so much and felt connected to the stories and the people in them—Anne Frank, Elie Wiesel, Primo Levi—but somehow I felt even less connected to my own.

And yet, even with these gaping holes in my family history, I have always felt my 3G-ness in every fiber of my being—literally and figuratively—even if I didn’t fully understand it. My red hair comes from my great-grandmother Esther, who was sent to the gas chambers when she arrived at Auschwitz. My Hebrew middle name is after my grandmother’s beloved sister, Shaindel, who suffered the same fate. Come to think of it, most of my relatives are named after someone who died at the hands of the Nazis—my father was named for his two grandfathers, my mother was named for her two grandmothers, and so on. I carry the weight of their memory and legacy proudly—not as a burden, but as an anchor, connecting me to the struggles and the triumphs of the generations that came before me. There is a quiet power in that.

But, as descendants of Holocaust survivors know, with that anchor also comes the legacy of trauma—the intergenerational kind that trickles down from survivor to child to grandchild. In my family, this manifested itself in a culture of silence and not talking about the hard things. As a result, I had tremendous anxiety about the unknown, but I learned that certain things just weren’t discussed, and I kept my questions and fears—about many things—bottled up for years.

I am very lucky. My remarkable grandma Goldie is currently 103-years-old, and “still having most of her marbles,” as she likes to say. She is tough as nails and speaks her mind without apology. In her younger years, she was an incredible cook (the best latkes ever!) and a talented seamstress, her snow-white hair was always perfectly coiffed, and she was the life of every party. She has taught me a lot about joy, resilience, and the value of family. In the past few years, I have garnered the courage and taken it upon myself to flip the family narrative and be the first to ask her the hard questions—about her childhood, her family, and her experience during and after the Holocaust. The rewards have been boundless.

I learned that when she arrived at Auschwitz, my grandmother and her sister-in-law were sent to the right, while her mother and young niece and nephew were sent to the left, to death. Her sister-in-law ran after the children, and Goldie followed. Miraculously, someone pushed her back to the right, and she was the only one who survived. She described walking through the snow, with only rags on her feet, sick with typhus, on a death march to the Baltic. She and two other women escaped the march and hid in a barn, ultimately being rescued by a Jewish Russian soldier—another miracle. 

During our talks, I also learned so much more about her—in the way that her face softened when she talked about her mother and beloved sister, the light in her eyes when she described her young romance with my grandfather, and the anguish and tears when she talked about the horrors she endured and the people she lost.

Yes, there are pieces missing, and things I will never know, but I’m ok with that now; I’ve worked hard to become comfortable with the not-knowing. I think that makes me appreciate it even more when I uncover something new, and I find more fulfillment in the little bits. Just the other night, I found a letter, typed in German, that my grandmother gave me a few years ago. Within minutes (thanks, ChatGPT), I discovered that this letter was the affidavit my grandfather had written in the early 1960s as part of his application for reparations from the German government. 

In it, he described the multiple labor camps where he was forced to build airfields and sawmills, and his escape from a death march to Mauthausen with four other men. They hid in the forest, and ultimately were saved by an Austrian family who hid them on their farm until the war ended. A Google search revealed that the family was recognized as Righteous Among the Nations by Yad Vashem in 2011. He described the anguish he felt upon learning that his parents and brothers had been murdered at Auschwitz, and the physical and mental struggles he experienced after the war. It was an incredible, unexpected gift—my first-ever glimpse into what my grandfather had endured—in his own voice—11 years after his death. 

In discovering my grandparents’ stories, I have finally found the connection I sought for so long, and in turn, I have found my own voice. While their trauma will always be a part of me, I have the power to decide which shattered fragments to hold onto as they are, and which pieces to reassemble and do better with. What once felt like obsession has turned into passion, and this has given me a renewed sense of purpose. I remain steadfast in my quest to never stop learning and searching for answers, but also fiercely committed to the responsibility to honor my grandparents’ legacy. By telling their stories—in classrooms and community centers—and teaching others what can happen when hate spirals out of control, I serve as a link in the chain of witness, creating new witnesses so that the chain remains unbroken for future generations.