The last separation. Children sent on different deportations from their friends
Chana Kaufman – “You will live, you will go on”
Chana was born in Brussels, Belgium and was ten years old when the war broke out. With the deterioration of the situation of the Jews in the city during the Nazi occupation, Chana was given to a Christian woman. She carried the farewell from father and mother in her heart, and their words echoed in her ears:
"'I already have the whole amount!' my mother said to my father happily, as if she was giving him good news. And immediately afterwards she burst into tears… my father, instead of calming her down, cried along with her… our big and strong father? I've never seen him cry. And today he cried a lot …
He hugged me tightly and said in a trembling voice: 'My Chanaleh, you will live! You will go on! You will remember us, my Chanaleh, you are a daughter of Israel. Don't forget - you are a Jew!'…
[My mother] took my hand in hers and led me towards the door. My father stood in the doorway, as on Shabbat night after the Kiddush. Then he bent down and hugged me, and I felt that his face was wet.
Suddenly I began to understand, and a terrible fear attacked me: 'I don't want to go! I want to be with you. We should all be together!'
But my father released me from his arms and gently took me out the door of the house.
We went down the stairs, I walked forward, but my heart remained behind, with my father who was still standing at the opening to the door."
(Behind the Walls, Miriam Cohen, 2002)
Chana did not remain in the home her parents sent her too. After a short time, the Belgian woman gave her to a convent. Chana's life living under a Christian identity was unbearanly difficult. At the end of the war, Chana was released from the convent thanks to the immense efforts of her relative who pretended to be her grandfather so that he would have permission to take her. Chana's parents and brother perished. She immigrated to Israel alone and after several years, she married and started a family. Later, her memories were published in the book "Behind the Walls."
Women separating in the Kovno Ghetto
Children from the Lodz Ghetto separated from each other on either side of the fence
Saul Friedlander - "I Could Not Cope with the Separation"
The suffering of the children during the transition was no less difficult than the suffering of the parents, what is more, the children did not always understand what was going on. For example, this is how Saul Friedlander, born in Prague, Czechoslovakia, whose family fled to France (and later became an important Holocaust historian), describes his memories as a child sent into hiding:
"I remember the first time in this new foreign environment of the monastery in San Branca as a time of complete despair. Everything there made me feel suffocated: the severe discipline, the endless prayers that I didn't understand a word of, the gloomy appearance of the huge building where we lived, and also the food that I found nauseating. I decided to run away."
Saul managed to escape from the monastery and reach the hospital where his parents were hiding.
"I went up four floors, opened the door, slammed it shut, and threw myself into my mother's arms."
"There are memories that you cannot share with others, as the gap between what the memories mean to you and the understanding of others is so great. The words exchanged in that hospital room were, of course, in and of themselves, nothing more than everyday words: the pleas of a child and the promises of adults. I sat on my mother's lap, my arms around her neck. I cried. My father and mother both spoke, each in turn. They assured me again and again that the separation would be short. In the meantime - I had to go back to San Branca. No, I'm not allowed to come with them: They can't explain to me why, but it's better that way. I will come to them soon. In any case, the war will soon be over, and we will all return to Prague. And then everyone will be able to… And then here mother used a rather common Czech expression, to mix in a tone of cheerfulness, to show me clearly that there was no reason, really no reason, to be so sad. From my perspective, though, I felt strongly that this conversation was an expression of anxiety: My parents defended their claims with the full conviction of people who know their words are not believed. Then the signal was given. I had to go. My mother hugged me, but my father - without meaning to - made me understand the true meaning of our separation: He hugged and kissed me. It was the first time my father, more stiff, had kissed me. Nothing was yet finished and agreed upon. Others took the risk and took their children with them. My parents deposited me in a safe place, but I, who could not bear the separation, ran away, and rushed to them. Would they be able to tear me away from them another time?
I held on to the bars of the bed. How did my parents have the strength to release my hand without bursting into tears in front of me? Everything was erased by the disaster and by time. What my father and mother felt at that moment disappeared with them; What I felt at the moment, I made myself forget, and from this whole rupturing event, only a small image remains in my memory: the image of a boy walking down the Rue de la Garde - in the opposite direction to that in which he had run a short time before - in the autumn light, between two nuns dressed in black."
Friedlander's parents were caught in early October 1942 while trying to cross the border from France to Switzerland, and were murdered by the Germans.
This is what Saul Friedlander's mother wrote to Madame Madel who helped save him:
"In my desperation, I turn to you because my husband told me that you pity us and understand what we are going through. We have managed, at least so far, to save our child… I am begging you, dear lady, to watch over our child and give him your protection until the end of this terrible war. I do not know what is the safest way to protect him, but I trust with all my heart in your kindness and understanding. If we are destined to die, let us at least have the consolation that our beloved son was saved. The child has enough clothes, underwear, and shoes, and there is enough money for him too. I will come to deposit everything with you if you will be so kind as to say yes. Legally, we can no longer exist. Forgive me for the form of this letter. My hands are no longer working."
(Saul Friedlander, When Memory Comes)
A last letter. A girl in the Lodz Ghetto writes a letter, moments before her deportation
Adults writing farewell letters prior to their deportation from the Lodz Ghetto
Family members separated from their loved ones being deported to work camps
A boy destined for deportation, separated from his family
Children writing farewell letters before their deportation from the Lodz Ghetto
Last letter. A Jews writes a letter prior to his deportation from the Lodz Ghetto
Irit Cooper - "Do Not Forget that You Are a Jew!"
Ita (Irit) Cooper was born in Minsk Mazowiecki, Poland, and was ten years old when the war broke out. She was deported to a ghetto, together with her family.
In spring 5702 (1942) rumours grew saying that the ghetto would be liquidated. Ita's mother transfered her from the ghetto to a Polish farmer, and promised to return in the fall to pick up her daugher. The mother and daughter separated in a forest.
"I will always remember the day I left the ghetto with my mother, when a large and threatening sign was displayed at the gates: 'Whoever leaves the ghetto will be killed!'"
"My mother acted as if she wasn't pay attention to the sign. She quickly slipped away, like a rabbit, running between the trees of the forest."
"And I still see her black eyes, burning like fire, and requesting: 'Italeh, don't become a Christian! And never forget that you are a Jew!'"
(To The Same Villages, Irit R. Cooper, 2004)
The mother did not return. Italeh did not know about the ghetto liquidation that took place in the summer. She remained on the farm and worked as a shepherd. On the farm, she knew that she was Jewish and that her family had banished her. She wandered between farms, taught herself Christian customs, until she arrived at a nearby convent. She remained there, under a false identity, until the end of the war. After liberation, she searched for her family and discovered that she was the sole survivor. Ita went to a Jewish orphanage in Lodz. She attempted to immigrate to Israel illegally with a group of survivors in 5706 (1946), but was expelled to Cyprus and after several months, she immigrated legally to Israel. She got married in 5718 (1958) and built a family.
A Last Letter. Moments before deportation from the Lodz Ghetto, a mother writes a son a letter to send to a family member outside of the ghetto
A letter in Yiddish describing the prevailing difficult situation in the ghetto
Jews separated by a fence in Lodz before deportation
Parting in tears. Young people prior to a deportation from the Lodz Ghetto
Nechama Tec - "You Must Be Strong"
Nechama Tec was given by her father to a Christian family. She described the moment she was forced to separate from her father and the last words that he said to her.
"When he told me that we had to leave in the afternoon, I did not complain. I saw how difficult it was for him. I knew him too well not to acknowledge his suffering, and I could not cause him more pain. 'I will not cry,' I promised myself. I wanted to tell him that he should not worry about me, but instead I looked at him and did not avert my eyes. I wanted to memorize his facial features. I didn't have any photographs of him because it was dangerous to keep them, but I felt that if I could etch his features into my memories, I could somehow keep him with me. More than anything else in the world I wanted him to stay. But I could not tell him that. The time came for us to separate. My father wrapped his arms around me and held me close. It was a desperate and painful hug. 'Remember,' he whispered, 'never tell anyone where we went. And never ever admit to anyone that you are a Jew. As much as this is hard for you, you must keep these secrets. You must be strong.' I nodded my head, tried to hold on to him a little longer. My whole being filled with tears, but they remained inside. Firmly, though gently, he released himself from the hug, and before I realized what had happened, he was gone. Like a dream, I moved closer to the window to see him better. My tears flowed freely but in silence… That night I cried myself to sleep. I was left alone."
(Dry Tears, Nechama Tec)
