Still in the Shadow of the Shoah

There is a truth in war: every survivor has a story to tell. Sadly, it is very true. Each has remembrances of evil too horrible to talk about, but impossible to forget. But what of their children, the second generation? We too have stories to tell. Our tales are not of prison guards and ovens, but of parents who, because of the war, were badly broken.

For many of us who have grown up under the shadow of the Holocaust, our lessons in life were altered. Mom said the word "stranger" with as much disdain as any four-letter word. This made living with "strangers" difficult.
The lives of many adult children of survivors look a great deal like my life.
Walking down the street with strangers behind you, and even riding up in an elevator with an unknown male, put you in possible jeopardy. Trust did not come easily to us, which is why family meant that much more.

"Be prepared" is an old scouting adage, but to survivors it is not just a saying, but a way of living. Preparation involves many things; money is on top of the preparedness list. The issue of money is complex. It represents so many things.

During the war, many of the lucky few who had enough money bought their way to freedom, while those without had to roll the dice and hope they made it out alive. It is not that we have to have a lot; it is that we have to have enough. Enough in case you needed to get away. Money is also a way of insulating yourself from the world. With enough money, you can live quietly and unobserved.

Hoarding, versus wasting, is another facet in preparedness. "Never throw anything away, you might need it" was something I heard over and over again. Being wasteful seemed sacrilegious. How many times had I opened Mom's fridge and gasped in horror at the items that still stood on her shelves, long after their expiration date.

Secrecy is an important issue. The fewer people who know that you are Jewish, the safer you will be if and when It ever happens again. Mom taught me that it was unwise to publicize my heritage. It was better to assimilate and maneuver invisibly in society. Goyim (non-Jews in Yiddish) are never to be completely trusted. To better our chances, we lived in a very Jewish neighborhood in Los Angeles, but Mom still never got over her fears.

Two months after I hit the big 50, a stroke took Mom from me. Without having her constant barrage of life lessons poured into me, realizations of what life is really like have surfaced. Many of those truths that were chiseled in stone were not truths at all.

Through books and conversations, I have discovered that the lives of many adult children of survivors look a great deal like my life. Unfortunately for my generation, and even for the ones that follow, the Holocaust is still casting its shadow.