Broken Brids

Click below for Katzir's most recent interview
http://www.book-club-queen.com/jeanette-katzir.html

Click here for an article by Jeannette Katzir seen in sdjewishworld.htm

Click here to read a book review from
Womensmemoirs.com

Click here to read a book review from
womenandtheholocaust.com

As seen on BoomerCafe.com

jeannette

We are the Roots generation. But for most of us, that usually means we went looking for our ancestral roots. For baby boomer Jeannette Katzir though, they could not be ignored. Not when her family’s roots had so recently reached into the Holocaust. In her brand new memoir, Broken Birds, The Story of my Momila, Jeannette writes about what happened when her mother — a Partisan fighter in World War II, and her father, a survivor of Dachau — died, and the broken children were left to deal with it; it is relevant to all of us because we’re at a stage in life where as we get older, our parents are leaving us. This excerpt from an early chapter is called, Channa Always Hated Strangers.

Channa Perschowski was born on November 27, 1929, in Baranavichy, a small rural town in what was then Poland. Picturesque with its red-brick houses, Baranavichy was nestled amid thick woods that thrived in the country’s moist, dark soil. Beautiful blue lakes dotted the landscape and rivers wound their way past ancient castles dating back to the eighth century. Russian Orthodox Church turrets competed with Jewish synagogues, but only in the contest of old-world charm. Today, the area is in the eastern part of the Republic of Belarus, sandwiched between Poland and Russia.

When Channa was born, her mother, Rachel, was overjoyed. A few years earlier, Rachel had had to bury her young daughter Sonya, who had been born with a hole in her heart. The fragile girl suffered from shortness of breath and weariness, and had spent most of her time in bed. Rachel was a dutiful mother, never straying from her daughter’s bedside. Rachel spoon-fed her bowls of hot, sugary cream of wheat with large dollops of butter that slowly melted around the sides of the cereal. Despite her mother’s tender care, Sonya died in her mother’s arms at the age of eight.

rachel-on-the-gravesite Her death was extremely hard on Rachel. She blamed herself incessantly, wondering what she had eaten or done that could possibly have caused her precious little daughter to lose her life. She would visit the graveyard often, spending much time sitting on Sonya’s grave.

Rachel’s only joy in those dark days following Sonya’s death was Sonya’s older brother, Isaac, who was two years older. Isaac had grown into a healthy lad with boundless energy. He had dark features and had inherited his mother’s worried eyes and prominent Jewish nose. He was a little short for his age, but was solid as a rock and strong as an ox. Even at his young age, he had a tender side and loved his sister Sonya dearly, always treating her with gentle kindness. Sometimes he would capture small lizards as they scurried through the yard and bring them into the house, cupped in his hands, for Sonya to admire and touch with her little fingers. They would giggle until Rachel came into the room. “Isaac, get that out of here!” Rachel would scold.

Sonya’s death was as hard on Isaac as it was on Rachel. But neither his mother nor his father could give him the answers he sought or help him express the tremendous sadness he felt. So he kept as busy as a young boy could, fending off the pain he held in his heart.

In the years that followed Sonya’s death, Rachel suffered numerous miscarriages and feared she would never have any more daughters. But after eleven years, she finally carried a baby to term, and when Channa arrived, Rachel’s heart filled with joy. A few years later, Channa had a baby sister whom they named Jetta.

Rachel was tireless and bestowed a great deal of affection on her three children. She would sit on the cold wooden floors and play games with them for hours, ignoring the cooking and the cleaning. When the weather kept the children inside, she would bake sugar cookies with them, carefully guiding their small hands while they pressed various shapes onto the floured dough. Then she would patiently show them how to sprinkle sugar and cinnamon onto the warm cookies as they cooled on the counter.

Shlomo, the children’s father, was less patient. He worked hard and when he came home, he demanded serenity. He had little tolerance for the children’s noise and energy, and at times he could be quite harsh. “Sit down and be quiet!” he often yelled. “Why don’t you go outside to play—and stay there a while!” When the children did not obey his demands for silence, he banged his fists on the table, causing them to run and hide under their beds.

Luckily for the children, Shlomo traveled extensively for business. He was often away for long periods of time, which made Channa happy. Neither she nor her siblings had ever developed a close bond with their father. He had never tried to earn their love and they could sense their mother’s indifference towards him.

While Shlomo might not have been the best father, he was an outstanding provider. He was in the schmate, or garment, business. He regularly journeyed to America with clothing patterns, which would be turned into blue jeans and shirts to be sold to the American public. He would save up all the money he made and bring it back to Poland and his family. With each homecoming came a bundle of cash, which was spent on a variety of things. Fences and windows needed to be replaced and the children always seemed to have outgrown their sweaters and shoes.