Leaving Her

I thought his name was Nathan, just as I knew his son as a Seymour. In a distant, long-gone world, though, they were Nuta and Szimon. In 1923, he travelled across an ocean, leaving then-Szimon and his three siblings at the farm in Nasielsk, or Płonsk, or Mława.  All three towns have records of them, still. The map places my ancestors' towns close to one another. But America-- Amerike!-- was a world away.

When Papa-- Seymour-- spoke about his childhood, there were two sticky moments. One was the reunification. At Ellis Island, the father he barely remembered greeted the bedraggled family who had just crossed the sea on the Aquitania. Papa held the memory of that joy for a lifetime, along with the disappointment that his father ran to hold little Jack, his wily brother, first.   The other sticky moment was all the times and ways he knew he was in love with my grandmother.

How did Nuta/Nathan leave his wife and children? Back then, the answer was apparent: Hope. Dreams of a Goldene Medine, a land of Milk and Honey, led many families over the river, through the woods and across an ocean. Besides, his wife's family had already paved the way and were waiting for him. All he had to do was work and save and send for his family. Thank goodness he did. Thank Goodness he did!

Yesterday, I came upon many letters in the Yad Vashem archives. Many of them touched my heart and stirred up emotions. Emmanuel Ringelblum's last letter, speaking of plans for the Oneg Shabbos historical documents made me cringe at the inescapability of death. I wept after reading hopeful letter home from a refugee child on the doomed Mefkure ship bound for Palestine but destined to death. And then there was the letter to Dita Gerlitz.

Can you imagine being a mother writing a letter to your six and a half year old daughter to open when she comes of age, knowing that you will probably have been destroyed by the Nazis before she can understand why you abandoned her? Can you imagine the desperation that would cause a mother and father to leave children with friends or neighbors, as so many parents saved their hidden children's lives? Leaving Dita...an act of sacrifice and hope. Here is part of the letter in handwriting:

Look how evenly she tried to write, knowing this is all her daughter might have left of her. Even so, the addendum in the middle and the bent ends of line show a lack of time and space. Haste was made and Dita was left with the Florczak family. They risked their life for her, too, and she survived.

Parents Sarah and Yehiel miraculously survived too. The reunion occurred before Dita needed to read the letter. Her mother, amazingly, still had the saved photo of Dita before the separation. 

Dita didn't remember her parents.  In leaving her, they risked losing her in more ways than one. War changes everyone and trauma affects memory. Luckily, the reunited family made it to the new Israel. Years later, Dita's brother ( born after the war) found the papers and made sure Yad Vashem honored the family who saved his family. Theodor and Jaroslawa Florczak were honored in the fiftieth year of "Righteous Among the Nations". Nuta left my grandfather and it worked out. Sarah left Dita and-- albeit with major scars-- it worked out. Sometimes you have to leave someone you love to ensure a better survival. Sometimes that leaving is heartwrenchingly impossible.

I wish I had known and been able to understand this when I was about twelve.  These were the awkward lonely years. I didn't know how to be a friend yet, and I wasn't comfortable around most people. Luckily for me, I had a younger sister about ten years my junior. She was more sophisticated than a doll but loved me just as unequivocally. 

Back in those days, my typical afternoons (after school and Mathletes or music lessons) meant taking little Melinda to the park a few blocks away. I felt so grownup and helpful, and loved the time I shared with my little sister. As I strolled her down Locust Street, I would chatter on about school and share all my ideas that nobody really needed to hear. In the park, she would sing as I pushed her on the swings, and cackle with joy when I put all my wild pubescent energy into twirl the merry-go-round. Sandbox conversations were always fun, if not therapeutic.  I loved being a big sister!

Then, one day, when Melinda was about two, she grew very lethargic at the park. Her hands were clammy and I noticed bruises on her, ones that almost matched my hand print. I was horrified and terrified and knew we needed my father.  Luckily, he responded to our "au secours!" phone call and made it down the street in record time.

I will never forget standing at the park, frozen, alone, after he rushed her away to the hospital. I had a stroller and no one to push in it. I was at the park and suddenly I had become too old to play. The emptiness, fear, and guilt were unbearable. I believed (mistakenly) that I was responsible for my sister's sickness. And when she didn't come home for days, the knot in my stomach only grew.

Papa's father needed to come to America so we could live a free life. Dita's mother needed to send her precious girl into hiding to save her life. And Melinda needed to leave me so she could get the medical care that would help her stay the tough cookie she was for years to come.

But oh! What an empty aching heart is eft after the goodbye!

From the musical, Rags: "Sometimes we can't love things, til we tell them goodbye. Oh my homeland, my homeland, goodbye."  May I always cherish what I have when I have it, hold it close when I can, and allow my loves freedom to fly when flight is needed.