The United Nations General Assembly designated January 27—the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau—as International Holocaust Remembrance Day.
On this annual day of commemoration, the UN urges every member state to honor the six million Jewish victims of the Holocaust and millions of other victims of Nazism and to develop educational programs to help prevent future genocides.
This is an excerpt from a chapter I wrote in an unpublished manuscript called A Change Gonna Come. It’s a coming-of-age story of Tom O’Brien as he faces the challenges and joys of going to a Catholic school in NW Indiana during the 1967-68 school year. Among his very best friends are Carl and Giselle Black, his across-the-street elderly, immigrant, neighbors. This is a part where she reveals her geschichte—her story, to Tom.
Chapter 19 – Please Remember, My Friend
Wednesday, November 29, 1967
The robins had left, settling into a warmer climate during the frigid northern Indiana winter. The Canada geese, in their jagged V formations, had been leaving since October. You could hear them honking and carrying on a mile away. The remaining birds were hearty.
The stubborn crows somehow managed to find food just about anywhere. Tom saw them eating roadkill along 57th Avenue and out of the trashcans at Saints Peter and Paul. The bright red cardinals and gregarious blue jays were a common sight on Giselle’s feeders. Tom was grateful for their color on these dreary days. Sparrows and finches and black-capped chickadees hunted for seeds in the remains of people’s gardens. Tufted titmice, small gray birds with tiny sprouts of feathers on the backs of their heads, cracked seeds and ate at the feeders. White-breasted nuthatches have long narrow beaks that allow them to find bugs under bark. These birds descend trees with their heads downward.
Once, when Tom and Carl were looking out the window at Giselle’s feeders, they watched a nuthatch on an oak tree. Carl, who was filling his pipe with tobacco, looked around to see if Giselle was within earshot. She wasn’t. “Thomas, do you know what bird experts are called?”
“Sure,” Tom answered. “Ornithologists, right?”
“Ja, young sir. Do you know what ornithologists call that particular species? There was a twinkle in his eye.
“What do they call them, Mr. Black?”
“Well,” he looked over his shoulder. The coast was clear. “The scientific name is sitta carolinensis. But the common name is ass-up-a-tree.”
Tom grinned.
“But don’t mention that to Giselle!” he cautioned.
…………
Tom saw Carl and Giselle walking down their steps. They were bundled up. Carl wore a red cap Sarah Grace knitted for him, with a matching red scarf under a worn black overcoat. His beard bunched out over the scarf. A wizard in a blizzard, Tom thought.
Giselle also dressed warmly. But while Carl trudged slowly down the steps, Giselle seemed to glide down. He took careful steps, like a young child, holding the railing. His right foot came down, his left foot followed to the same step. Right foot down, left foot down the same.
Tom crossed the street and waved to his neighbors. “Guten Abend,”
“Guten Abend, Thomas” they replied in unison. Good evening.
“We were just talking about you,” Carl said as he carefully stepped onto the sidewalk and straightened. “How pleasant to become reacquainted with your friend Marilyn the other day. Same intellect, same feisty spirit as when she was little.”
“She’s a good kid.”
“It must have been lovely to have your sisters home for Thanksgiving.” Giselle eased her grip on Carl’s arm. “Did you have a nice time?”
“Sure,” said Tom. He laughed hard during those precious days. “But everyone’s changed.” Carl looked up the sidewalk towards West 55th.
Giselle straightened her collar. “It’s the natural way of things, isn’t it?” They took their usual places: Giselle on the inside, holding gloved hands with Carl, Carl leaning heavily on his cane. Tom walked nearest the street.
“Change is expected,” Carl mumbled. They passed Zubecks on the right. Jack the Jack Russell terrier, barked shrilly from his perch on the couch. “But, that dog doesn’t change.”
“Tell us about your sisters, Thomas,” Giselle inquired.
“Catherine was happy to see us, but she was ready to get back.”
“I remember such a feeling,” Carl said, “young and anxious to be on my own.”
Tom continued, “She talked to her boyfriend half the day on the phone.”
They passed the empty lot where the gang played baseball, football and soccer. There was a FOR SALE sign staked into the ground. “Gracie’s getting great grades and loves school. She misses Sarah.”
“They shared the same womb, the same crib, the same bedroom. Twins, like your Grace and Sarah, always had each other for built in best friends. I myself had a twin brother,” Giselle said.
“You did?” Tom was genuinely surprised. A twin?
“Yes. The bond between us was quite strong. And how is your lovely Sarah?” she asked.
“She’s changed the most.”
“How so?” Carl probed, slowing as they approached their first corner. Tom wondered if Carl could finish the final three quarters of their walk.
“For one thing, she’s against the Vietnam War. She and my dad don’t see eye to eye about politics.”
“Tension is to be expected when children leave and come back to the nest. The world looks different when you become independent,” Carl said.
“War is Hell,” said Giselle. She’d never cussed in front of Tom before.
“Sometimes it’s necessary, right?” Tom heard his parents and grandparents talk about World War Two.
“I suppose so,” said Carl. It was getting dark. Carl slowed, his feet barely left the ground.
“Giselle,” Carl said after a few quiet moments. “Perhaps it’s time to continue the conversation we began in the workshop. Thomas asked us how we met and I prattled on about my own story. But we never got to your history, your geschichte.”
They neared the streetlight marking the halfway point in their walk. Its amber light was an island.
Tom prompted, “Carl said sharing stories is sharing life.”
“Yes,” she answered softly, “and we are more than friends. But remember that some of my early story is unpleasant.” They stopped on the sidewalk. The streetlight shone around them in the darkness. She looked at Carl. He nodded.
Giselle put her gloves in her pockets and held out her hands. Tom placed his cold hands into her warm ones. In the cone of amber light, Giselle shared her geschichte.
“War is the death of innocence. Even soldiers are innocent victims of war. Soldiers on both sides are made to do what they are told. Most soldiers are frightened. I saw some of these scared young men who did not want to follow the orders of their commanders. People must be taught to fear and hate.
“My family members were victims of the Nazis during World War II. Your father was in the army wasn’t he, Thomas?”
“My father enlisted, along with his brothers and his friends.”
“In that he was brave,” Carl said. “He must have been not much more than a child.”
“He was nineteen,” said Tom. “The same age as Gracie and Sarah.”
Carl shook his head. The top of his red wool cap waggled back and forth.
Tom asked Giselle, “Are you from Germany?”
“My family is from Hungary, a city named Sighet, but we spoke fluent German. My parents were devout Jews, as was my twin brother Chayim. His name means ‘life.’ He and his lovely wife had two children, who I thought of as my own. I lived with them. Chayim’s wife, Naomi, was not just my sister-in-law. She was my schwester, my sister.
“My father was the finest tailor in the city. He was commissioned to make suits for the elites. He loved fabric as much as Carl loves wood. Like Carl, my father was an artist. I can see him now, running cloth through his fingers, touching it to his cheek.”
She looked down, gazing into her past. “Jews were a minority in Sighet, but we were all Hungarians. We laughed. We loved. We cried. We rejoiced.
“Do you remember the book I read this fall, Night, by Eliezer Weisel?”
Tom nodded. It was the same one Marilyn was reading when he saw her cry in the cafeteria.
“I knew Elie and his family. He was a serious one. We went to synagogue together. I knew his sisters Hilda, and Beatrice, and little Tzipora. Such lovely people,” she sighed.
“Then, the Nazis came. Jews were forced to leave our homes and live in ghettos. Our belongings were taken. We were forced to wear the yellow star on our clothes. Our leaders were arrested, as was my father. Thousands of Jews in such a small space. We thought it was temporary. How could the world watch and do nothing? We could not fathom what was happening.
“Then they took us. The Germans herded us in train cars like cattle. They threatened us, humiliated us, beat us. The doors to the train were nailed shut.”
Giselle whispered, “My family did not live to see the liberation of Auschwitz. We were told it was a work camp. It was only death.”
Giselle looked into Tom’s eyes. She took her gloves from her pocket and put them back on.
“I’m sorry,” Tom breathed. Carl reached up and put a hand on Tom’s shoulder.
Giselle continued, “Like Elie Wiesel, I lived to tell the story.”
Tom nodded.
“I am the blessed one who came to America after the liberation of the camp. I’m gifted with the love of this good man.” She squeezed Carl’s arm. “We have a beautiful home, friends, freedom.
“If I were to die this very night, I would be grateful for the life I have lived. Sixty-seven must seem quite old to you, but my grandmother died when she was one hundred and three. To her, at the end of her life, sixty-seven must have seemed quite young.”
Tom sighed, his eyes brimming.
They walked home in silence. With the break in their circuit, Carl was able to shuffle the rest of the way, but he was noticeably breathless when they approached Black’s driveway.
“Giselle,” Tom said, for he thought the formality of ‘Mrs. Black’ was past, “Thanks for telling me your story.”
“You are my friend.” She paused as if considering something important, “Thomas, do you mind coming in for a moment?”
Tom put a steadying hand on Carl’s shoulder as he and Giselle helped Carl up the driveway.
“Hmph,” Carl said. “By what means of physics does this driveway become a steeper angle each day?”
“It’s a miracle, dear one,” Giselle said sweetly.
The Blacks hung up their coats. Giselle took something from the small handmade wooden box on the glass table near the picture window.
“First, I have something to show you. For we are friends, and sharing stories is sharing life.” She pushed up her right sleeve and held out her forearm. There was the number Tom glimpsed before. The number 4 in faded blue ink followed by 8788. The seven had a little hash mark across it the way Carl wrote his 7’s.
“This was the number the Nazis gave me when I was in Birkenau, the processing center for Auschwitz. I keep it hidden, for I am not this number. You know me now, Thomas, in a way you didn’t before tonight.”He looked into her clear, dark eyes.
“Carl and I met at an advanced age so we didn’t have children. But know that in some ways we think of you as a son.”
Tom swallowed hard.
“And here is my gift to you.” She pulled a piece of fabric from her pocket and handed it to him.
“Before my father was dragged away, he pulled this from his sweater. He handed it to me the very last time we saw each other.” Loose threads remained around the edges. Two inverted triangles. A yellow star. The word Jude inscribed at its center.
“The Nazis made us wear these to make us feel inferior. Wearing the star reminded me clearly that I am a Jew. And I am proud. Now I give it to you.”
Tom was speechless.
“Bitte denkt daran, mein freund. Please remember, my friend.”
