Memory Is Our Home

Loss and Remembering: Three Generations in Poland and Russia, 1917-1960s
Erscheinungsjahr 2015
ISBN: 978-3-8382-0712-4
Verlag: ibidem

Buch, Englisch, 248 Seiten, Print PDF, Format (B × H): 156 mm x 235 mm, Gewicht: 454 g

Memory Is Our Home is a powerful biographical memoir based on the diaries of Roma Talasiewicz-Eibuszyc, who was born in Warsaw before the end of World War I, grew up during the interwar period and who, after escaping the atrocities of World War II, was able to survive in the vast territories of Soviet Russia and Uzbekistan.

Translated by her own daughter, interweaving her own recollections as her family made a new life in the shadows of the Holocaust in Communist Poland after the war and into the late 1960s, this book is a rich, living document, a riveting account of a vibrant young woman's courage and endurance.

A forty-year recollection of love and loss, of hopes and dreams for a better world, it provides richly-textured accounts of the physical and emotional lives of Jews in Warsaw and of survival during World War II throughout Russia. This book, narrated in a compelling, unique voice through two generations, is the proverbial candle needed to keep memory alive.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Eibuszyc, Suzanna

Fachgebiete

• Geisteswissenschaften Geschichtswissenschaft Geschichtswissenschaft Allgemein Geschichtspolitik, Erinnerungskultur
• Geisteswissenschaften Geschichtswissenschaft Geschichtswissenschaft Allgemein Biographien & Autobiographien: Historisch, Politisch, Militärisch
• Geisteswissenschaften Geschichtswissenschaft Geschichtliche Themen Mentalitäts- und Sozialgeschichte
• Geisteswissenschaften Geschichtswissenschaft Weltgeschichte & Geschichte einzelner Länder und Gebietsräume Europäische Geschichte

Leseproben

My earliest memories are hauntingly painful; they take me back to a day when Mother came home with just a piece of bread. I don't know how old I was, but I can see myself sitting with my brothers and sisters - hungry, cold, and alone in our room, waiting for Mother to return. I sat on the edge of the narrow bed that I shared with Mother and watched the door for hours, just waiting for her. We didn't know where she had gone, but she had been gone all day, and my fear that she was never coming home grew stronger as darkness descended. We were forbidden to light the kerosene lamp when we were alone.

I remember how Mother looked when she opened the door, disheveled and out of breath, as though she had been chased. She paused for a few seconds, walked over to me, and gave me the small piece of bread she clutched to her chest. Turning away from my starving brothers and sisters, I devoured it. Rationally, I know in hindsight that there was no reason to feel guilty; I was too young then to be accountable. But in my heart, I ask myself over and over, "How could I have not shared even a bite?"

We ran inside a little grocery store on Dzikiej Street, but as we ran, I thought I heard someone call out - "Pola, Roma" - but the blasts from the bombs were deafening. I hesitated to see who was calling me but Pola grabbed my arm and pulled me inside the shop. We spent the whole night there waiting for things to quiet down. In the morning, we rushed toward Sala's street. The fire had died out but the building was destroyed. There was no trace of Sala, her two boys, or her husband. We stood there in disbelief. We were frozen to the spot; around us was nothing but devastation. The rubble might very well have been their graves. Pola and I stood there crying, helpless to do anything. Pola was soon able to control herself, but I cried hysterically. Sala was the first one of us to suffer from the German bombardment. Only the day before, a six-story apartment building stood there. Over two hundred people lived in that building. Now Sala and her family were missing. I could not bear to think that they were gone forever. In the devastation and panic that surrounded us we did not know where to go and look for them, the only thing we could do was to make our way to Adek and Anja. In the midst of the nonstop air raids, Warsaw's citizens were barely surviving. I, too, could think of nothing but to stay alive. Fear and terror overtook my rational thinking. When it got quiet, I cried for Sala and her boys.

Sometimes our train was shunted to tracks no longer in use, and we were left there for days at a time. Regular passenger trains or trains carrying soldiers, equipment, or goods would pass through instead. From time to time, the locomotive was unhooked to fill the engine with coal. They would give each car a pail of coal for the stove. Most days, however, we rode in cold railroad cars as our train moved through what seemed like endless snow-covered fields. I was physically and emotionally exhausted from the monotony of the vast, frozen landscape, from the constant state of being cold and hungry, which I convinced myself would never end. My heart was heavy. I was being taken away further and further from those I loved. I could not shake my despair. I knew there was no turning back. We traveled through western Russia, going east for six weeks before finally arriving at our destination. The train stood in what seemed like the middle of nowhere for two days and two nights. It was bitter cold. We were allowed out of the crowded cars only to relieve ourselves. Finally, Russian officials with open trucks came to take us away to the rural community they called Sharyk Podczypnik.

Über Autor(innen)

Suzanna Eibuszyc received degrees from the City College of New York where she studied with Elie Wiesel and the University of California. She lives in Los Angeles.