Friends, today is International Holocaust Remembrance Day, and I could not think of a more appropriate moment to present my next book project to you and solicit your assistance.
At the same time, my wife's Shabbat candlesticks have also demanded their story be told. They belonged to my wife's great-grandmother, who was living in Belgium at the advent of WWII. When the Nazis invaded, the family walked for two weeks across northern Belgium and France, a total of 224 kilometers on foot, with their valuables in tow, including the candlesticks. They arrived during the famous Evacuation of Dunkirk, and made it across The English Channel. Once in the United Kingdom, they endured the Bombing of London. Fast-forward that three-quarters of a century again, and these candlesticks light up our dining room every Friday night.
These two stories have given me a cause. I have more like them, in my own family, but I need to collect and chronicle the amazing stories I don't yet know about. I need to give a voice, in a single volume, to these "silent witnesses" of our loved one's lives.
That's where you come in.
I want your stories. I want to hear about objects - jewelry, books, sifrei torah, kiddush cups, religious objects, etrog boxes, photographs, cookware, gems, curios, tools, furnishings, clothing, et al - that satisfy two criteria:
Below I have included the first, middle, and last chapters of the book. I turn this project over to you to fill out the 25-30 chapters in between. Tell me about an artifact that you feel would be an appropriate fit for this book. Let's get to work.
Mrs. Chaja Goldfischer’s Candlesticks
Travelogue:
Mrs. Chaja Ginzburg
Goldfischer, ~1911-1972, Poland, Germany, Belgium, France, UK
Mrs. Feiga
Goldfischer Storfer, 1972-2018, UK
Mrs. Naomi Storfer
Bodek, 2018-A’MUSH, USA
The candlesticks that adorn our
dining room every Shabbat and Chag have taken a long and tortuous road to
finally rest where they are, bathed in the glory of their gorgeous, skilled
craftsmanship and effulgent splendor.
They are beautiful because of their
physical imperfections, and they are cherished by my wife, Naomi, and if they could
speak, they would relate the following story:
I
am a candlestick and candelabra. I’m tall and majestic. I’m noticed when I’m in
a room, even if I’m in a corner. My components are florally ornate, and you can
see the talented hand of my craftsperson on every inch of me.
An
unnamed artisan intricately fashioned my parts in the aughts or teens of the 20th
century, nearly 120 years ago. In the 1910s, I found myself in a shop in Lesko,
Poland, when a young gentleman by the name of Juda Isak Goldfischer – the son
of Markus and Malka Kalter Goldfischer - purchased me, and brought me to his
home, and gifted me to his new, young wife, Chaja Ginzburg Goldfischer, the
daughter of Moshe and Yenta Gleich Ginzburg.
Mrs.
Goldfischer made use of me all the days of her life – 60-plus years in total –
but there was a time where my ability to stay with the family was brought into
peril and question. I did manage to remain within the family’s care despite
this war period, and this is the story behind that, which I’m eager to tell
you.
I
moved peacefully together with the Goldfischers in the late 1920s to Antwerp,
Belgium, but in 1940, the family felt the threat of oncoming, impending war.
They had endured The Great War and were familiar with the signs. The German
march on Belgium was the last straw. It began on May 10, 1940. Mr. and Mrs.
Goldfischer hastily sought refuge in the West, and desiring, if possible, to
cross the English Channel to reach the United Kingdom, to avert familial
catastrophe. The Germans were coming, fast, and they were stretching the
Belgian Army to its limit..
The
Goldfischers, along with many other families, packed up whatever they could
carry on their shoulders, and began a walk west towards freedom with the
children sojourning with them: Tauba, 22, Feiga, 18, Menachem Mendel, 15, and Henrietta
(Yetti), 9. It was hard on the young ones; it was hard on everybody.
I
joined them for this journey, along with other valuables, and we all marched
together for two long weeks as the Belgian Army held the line behind us. We
walked by day and we walked by night. I was wrapped lovingly in rags and towels
and placed in a sack, and the family members would use me as a pillow when they
rested. We slept in farms, in barns, in halls, in huts, and other forms of
shelter.
I
was brought along because of my ritualistic importance and sentimental value,
but I could also be bartered for money or for kindness, whichever would be
necessary.
When
we arrived in Boulogne-sur-Mer, France, after traversing 224 kilometers, we had
shed most of the belongings we had brought with us. We had traded them in for
cash or food, or having used the item to its completion. I was one of the few
items still left in the family’s possession at the end of the two-week journey across
the extreme northern parts of Belgium and France.
On
May 23, 1940, when we arrived on the shore and looked across the English
Channel towards our refuge, there were boats there, but they were not for us.
The evacuation of Dunkirk had begun, and the Battle of Boulogne was commencing
as we arrived. There was chaos all over the shores. The Goldfischers begged to
be allowed on board any of the vessels, and they received mercy.
Enemy
planes appeared. The Germans had learned about the evacuation site and had
arrived to thwart the operation. They began bombing and strafing our position,
and amidst the fright and confusion and raining fury from above, tragedy struck
the Goldfischer family.
Mrs.
Goldfischer was with the girls, and I was in my sack with them, and we jumped
onto one boat amidst all the panic.
Mr.
Goldfischer was with Menachem Mendel, and the young man managed to get on
another boat, but his father misstepped as he leapt onto the departing vessel.
His rucksack - filled with family photographs, documents, and keepsakes –
weighed him down so much, that he never resurfaced. At 53 years of age, he was
lost forever.
When
the family first arrived at Boulogne, they were together as one, embarking
hopefully across the Channel, but as they made their way to the opposite embankment,
Mrs. Goldfischer was now a widow, and the children were fatherless.
I
wish I could relay to you what Mrs. Goldfischer was thinking and feeling at
this time – would that I was the sort of creation who could ask such questions
of her – with a husband suddenly deceased, a child torn away, and bullets and
bombs raining down, but perhaps she might have been thinking something akin to
Genesis 32:7-8: “Then Jacob was greatly afraid and distressed: and he divided
the people that was with him…and said, “If Esau come to the one company, and
smite it, then the other company which is left shall escape.”
We
arrived on the shores of the United Kingdom the next day, on May 24, 1940, but
Menachem Mendel’s boat went to Liverpool, and the ladies went to London. Mrs.
Goldfischer secured lodgings for us, and the family was reunited – through not
inconsiderable investigative effort - with Menachem Mendel a short time after.
I
remained in the care of Mrs. Goldfischer all the rest of the days of her life -
through happiness and sadness, marriages of the children, and the joy of
grandchildren – until her passing in 1972 at the age of 79.
Mrs.
Goldfischer’s second oldest daughter, Feiga, inherited me. She had married a
Viennese scholar and gentleman named Joseph Alfred Storfer AKA Freddy – son of
Samuel and Evelina Rachel Storfer – 27 years prior to her mother’s passing. Feiga
and Freddy’s three children – Leon, Michael, and Hazel – were well into
adulthood, but Feiga was nevertheless overjoyed to have received me.
I
remained with Mrs. Storfer in London through the highs and the lows and the
joys and the sorrows and all of life itself until her passing in 2018 at the
age of 96.
Who
would now inherit me? Well, Mrs. Storfer had eleven grandchildren: nine boys,
and two girls. Mrs. Aliza Storfer Baum, daughter of Michael and Susan Blinder
Storfer, was well pleased with the candelabra she lit every Shabbat in her home
in Ramat Beit Shemesh in Israel.
Mrs.
Baum politely declined me for interesting reasons: both sets of her
grandparents had contributed to the purchase of her candlesticks when she got
married, and so they were very sentimental to her. Generations were represented
in them, and they were dear to her as a part of every Shabbat. She felt that
her cousin should have a sentimental part of her grandmother as well.
Therefore,
the beneficiary became Naomi Storfer Bodek, daughter of Leon and Rochelle
Weinstein Storfer. She adored her grandmother, and she wanted to possess
something that was a part of her. I was an ideal object of desire that could
fulfill that hope.
Once
this decision was made, I waited patiently in the breakfront for Naomi to pay a
visit from the States to the UK, so she could collect me and bring me to my new
home. I didn’t have to wait too long, and I’m thankful for that.
It
fell to the author of this book, Naomi’s husband, to transfer me from the UK to
the USA. He was exceedingly nervous about this. He thought my shape, by touch
or by X-ray, could easily be misconstrued as the muzzle of a weapon.
When
preparing for the trip home to the US out of Heathrow Airport, Martin wrapped
me affectionately and carefully and placed me in his backpack – I seem to do
that often, don’t I? He then made a contingency plan for a Storfer family
member to come retrieve me, in the event that security did confiscate me, for
whatever reason.
Security
did lay their hands on me to determine what I was – and you should have seen
the look on Martin’s face when this happened – but ultimately they let me pass,
and I made it onto the airplane.
Martin
only partially exhaled once we landed in the US, because I wasn’t home for good
just yet. I needed a bit of repair, and I had to be trusted to a stranger
before I could be settled in my new home, in my new continent.
You
see, unbeknownst to Naomi at the time, I am actually made of two parts. One is
the tall, ornate candlestick, engraved with Mrs. Goldfischer’s initials. The
other is an elaborate floral candelabra that inserts into the top of the
candlestick. Naomi was surprised when presented with the insert part – Mrs.
Storfer had never used it - and she loved her inheritance even more.
Now
the candelabra was in a state of a bit of disrepair. It had three arms coming
off the center, and one had broken off. I needed a silversmith to weld me back
on so that my new owner could use me.
Martin’s
mom, Chantze, knew just the person for the job. There was a silver store across
the corner from the Boro Park block her parents lived on, and inside was a
skilled silversmith.
We
visited the store, and when Martin engaged with the silversmith, he carefully
explained my entire history, and the devastation that would occur if I was
harmed or lost.
I
needn’t have worried. I was in good hands, and the smith took care of me
professionally, reminiscent of the care I received from my original creator.
In
the end, I was neither harmed, nor lost. Instead, I was repaired to close to my
original form, with all my perfections and imperfections, and I found a
permanent place in the corner of the dining room, atop a tall radiator
register, in the Bodek household in Passaic, New Jersey. They’re a fun bunch
who like to play board games on Friday nights.
We
moved in 2021 to Teaneck, New Jersey. I occupy my little space, atop a lovely silver
oval tray, atop a handsome piece of corner furniture, every Shabbat and Chag.
My owner lights six lights every such occasion, even though her household is
five individuals. The one extra light is for her grandmother, Mrs. Feiga
Storfer, in loving memory of her.
I
like that. I like that a lot, and I continue to enjoy the family’s Friday night
board games.
I
hope that Mrs. Bodek lives a long, full life, and uses me for a long, full
time.
I
also look forward to the love of whomever inherits me in the family. They have poured
their love and light upon me for generations, ever as much as I have done the
exact same for them.
Young Israel of Passaic Clifton’s
Holocaust Torah
Memorial Scrolls Trust #1056
Travelogue:
The Bečevskolipnica Synagogue,
Czechia, 1825-1942
The Jewish Museum, Czechia,
1942-1948
The Michle Synagogue,
Czechia, 1948-64
The Westminster
Synagogue, c/o The Memorial Scrolls Trust
United Kingdom,
1964-1968
US Veterans
Administration Center, US Military Marine Corps, Jewish Chaplains Council Office,
USA, 1968-2018
Young Israel of
Passaic Clifton, USA 2018-∞
Your
Humble Curator was directly involved in the inauguration of this sentimentally
valuable, well-traveled, beautiful Torah scroll at its current home at the
Young Israel of Passaic Clifton in New Jersey. I did so with a bit of flair,
based on my wife’s clever and endearing suggestion. I’m therefore proud to have
the Torah scroll speak for itself, and tell its wide-ranging life story.
I
am a Torah scroll. I’m old, but I’m made of good stock. I’m large, strong, and
heavy. The wood I’m made of is solid. The parchment I’m made of is visibly
weathered, but I’m sturdy, legible, and kosher after some repair. A lovely blue
cloth covering adorns me. I’m stately. I would humbly submit that I’m rather
handsome.
I
made it to my current home via an unconventional and curious, but well-received,
serenade. My history is nearly two centuries long, however, and I’d like to
tell it to you before I get to the story of my arrival in my present-day
dwelling.
Let’s
wind the hands of time all the way back to approximately 1825. That’s when I
was created by a dutiful scribe whose name I cannot remember. At the writing of
this essay, I’m 200 years young, but my memory is not what it used to be.
Lipnick
is the small town into which I was born, in the eastern part of what is today
Czechia, and I was placed in the care and service of a small house of worship
there called The Bečevskolipnica Synagogue. It was the second oldest synagogue
in what was then known as Czechoslovakia. I was brought in when the population
of the community was the highest it ever was in its history, a fact that
remains to this day. At peak population, about 1,600 Jewish souls resided here.
I
remained in this beautiful synagogue, which came to be known as The Lipnick
Synagogue, for quite a long time. Even though the population kept shrinking, my
synagogue remained, and I remained.
This
status changed in 1942 – after I’d spent 117 years in my dear synagogue – in
the most terrible way: deportation of my people.
I
saw it coming, however. We all did.
The
Germans invaded Bohemia and Moravia - both lands were inside Czechoslovakia -
in 1939. My synagogue was in the Moravia part. At this time, the invaders
didn’t truly destroy anything, but instead, confiscated all of it. Jewish
businesses and properties were seized, and the synagogues were shuttered. I was
left alone in the ark for three long and dark – in every sense of the word - years.
In
1942, the Nazis forced the good people of the community to pack up all their
religious artifacts, their ritual items made of valuable metals, and other such
items, and bring them to The Jewish Museum in Prague for careful cataloguing
and storage. I was one of over 200,000 items that were placed in the museum’s
warehouses, which included 1,800 Torah scrolls like me.
Debate rages as to why they ordered this, but
the end of the matter is that upon conclusion of this program, the Jewish
community was deported to the Theresienstadt Ghetto. From there they were sent
to concentration and death camps. Few survived. Fewer returned.
World
War II ended in 1945, but I remained hidden away in all that darkness for
another three years.
I
was liberated in 1948, or so I thought. A communist regime had taken over the
area, removed all items in the museum warehouses, and transferred me, and my
Torah scroll colleagues, to a damp warehouse just outside of Prague. I
languished there in silence, unused, unlooked after, unread from, unloved for
16 years.
Interestingly,
and sadly, also in 1948, the Jewish community I once called home ceased to
exist due to the devastation of the war. Many Jewish properties were sold. My
old synagogue became a Hussite Church (and remains so). I could not go back
home, even if I wanted to.
In
1963, the new Czech communist government sought to make a profit from all the
religious ceremonial items in storage. They tried selling the collection to
Israel; they tried art dealers and collectors; finally, after significant
conversations among notable philanthropists and political figures, the
collection caught the attention of Mr. Ralph Yablon, who agreed to fund the
purchase of 1,564 scrolls that were deemed still viable.
Off
we all went to London in 1964, and we landed in The Westminster Synagogue,
where the administration set up something called The Memorial Scrolls Trust
(MST).
This
new organization was created to organize the scrolls, restore them, and distribute
them to synagogues and Jewish organizations around the world. The purpose was for
all of us to serve as a living memorial - and “silent witness” - to the Jewish
communities that no longer existed.
I
was given a name as a result of this. I am MST #1056. I received a little
certificate and a plaque detailing my authenticity and history. This is not a
common thing for creations like me, but it is more than welcome.
In
1968, I shook off the dust and arose. I was freshened up and made fit for use.
I then began something of a zigzag adventure sojourn across the United States.
First
stop: I was sent to a US Veterans Administration Center in Martinsburg, West Virginia.
Second
stop: I was sent to the west coast of the US. This time I found myself in the
chapel of a US Military Marine Corps training base.
Third
stop: Back to the east coast. I was sent to the main Jewish Chaplains Council
office in New York City for purposes of sending me back to the Memorial Scrolls
Trust in the UK. At this time, the US Military was transitioning to smaller,
lighter Torah scrolls for ease of travel and storage. I’m a fairlsy big Torah
scroll.
Fourth
stop: However, I received a stay, of sorts, because the organization had
received the application for a Holocaust scroll from the Young Israel of
Passaic Clifton (YIPC), in New Jersey. MST thought it would be an excellent
idea if I could be examined to see if I would be fit for purpose.
So,
in 2018, Rabbi Zerach Greenfield inspected me, and found me worthy of continued
use. Mr. Avrami Groll, representing YIPC’s abiding interest in possessing a
Holocaust Torah, visited the Chaplains Council Office. He reviewed my
beauty and integrity, signed off on YIPC’s intent to serve as my new home, and The
Memorial Scrolls Trust granted authorization to take possession of me as a
“permanent loan.”
There
I rested in the ark, alongside several other lovely, younger scrolls while the
YIPC administration pondered a creative, punctuated way to introduce me to the
public.
The
board decided that I would be introduced to the congregation during Simchat
Torah – how appropriate is that? – 2019.
It
happened to be that the author of this book was the auctioneer for the
“Kibudim,” or religious honorifics, allocated on the occasion. He was asked to
play up for the crowd the importance and significance of my introduction, as I
would be used for the first time for “Kol Hanearim,” or “voice of the
children,” a special and emotional Torah reading event.
Your
Humble Narrator came home and told his wife about the specialness of this
iteration of the annual program. She responded that my story sounded much like
the one in the song “The Place Where I Belong,” by Abie Rotenberg. Mr.
Auctioneer should transform the lyrics to be relevant to the situation at hand,
and sing it to the congregation as part of the auctioneering.
“As
you wish,” is what both recall that his response was, and he began writing.
And
so, on Simchat Torah evening I was introduced to the community by being an
active participant during the sixth “Hakofo,” or dancing circle. This
particular dancing circle is devoted, at YIPC, to the current youth and to
future generations. What an endearing, wonderful event this was. I hadn’t been
enjoyed by youth in nearly a century.
The
next day, during the auctioneering segment, your narrator delivered as
promised. He gave a brief introduction to my history, and he sang the following
song, anthropomorphizing me, just like in the original song:
I hope to Stay, by Martin (Mordechi)
Bodek
T.T.T.O. The Place Where I Belong, by Abie Rotenberg
I
was made way back in 1825.
200 years now that I've been alive.
I started life in Lipnick, then the
war brought me to Prague
With 1,800 others, stacked like many
logs.
We
were rescued by a philanthropic man
Who brought us to London, quickly as
he can.
He found homes for all of us, and
sent us on our way.
And I made my path to the grand ol'
U.S.A.
I
spent some time on an east coast army base,
Then traveled to the west coast, my
next place.
Then the chaplain's office in New
York, where Avrami Groll found me,
And permanently loaned me for YIPC.
So
open up your hearts and you will see
our children glow when they look into
me.
I haven't been in a proper shul, for
three-quarters' century.
And I hope to stay for all eternity.
And I hope to stay for all
eternity."
Well
I just think that was the loveliest. We broke all kinds of records with the
bidding, and several members of the synagogue joined together to purchase the
Kol Hanearim “aliyah,” or torah call-up, for Avrami Groll, who made all this
happen.
So
here I am in the holy ark at YIPC in my old age, treated like I’m brand new. I
spent a century in the light, decades in the dark, and I’m back in the light
again.
The
light is much better.
Mrs. Chantze Malik’s Pendant
Travelogue:
Mrs. Chantze Malik, 1909-1944,
Romania
Mrs. Brana Stein
Malik, 1946-2004, Romania, Israel, USA
Mrs. Chantze Malik
Wicentowsky, 2012-2019, USA
Mrs.
Naomi Storfer Bodek, 2019-A’MUSH, USA
The
pendant that my wife wears brings a smile to my face daily. It’s not merely a
gift from my mother to her daughter-in-law. It feels like a gift proffered from
generations past. I see its entire history when I see it, and it is therefore
very dear and endearing to me. This is the beautiful history, as told by the
pendant itself:
I
am a simple, but elegant, diamond pendant. I’m a single pretty diamond, set
inside a small silver sphere, attached to the humblest of silver chains, worn
by the kindest young lady who wears me proudly every day.
I
was once part of a diamond-bedecked ring that was fashioned by a craftsperson
in the late aughts of the 20th century. The ring was gifted to a
young lady named Chantze Ganz Malik – daughter of Yosef Yom Tov and Malka
Rosenberg Ganz – by her young husband, named Aharon Malik, son of Eliezer and
Sura Malik.
They
lived in a village called Viseu de Jos, in Marmarosh County, in the
Transylvania region of Romania, and for a quarter-century, life was peaceful
and simple for Mr. and Mrs. Malik and their four children: Yente, Eliezer,
Benzion, and Sara.
The
good things gave way to the harsh things, however, and the Malik family began
to endure the tightening noose that Nazi Germany placed around their lives and
their people.
In
1939, 21-year-old Benzion was sent off to war, and he did not return from
wherever he was. He was believed to be gone forever.
Shortly
thereafter, their rights began to be taken away, systematically.
In
1944, the order came to the Malik family, and all their neighbors, to report to
the nearby ghetto. When that happened, Mrs. Malik immediately did something
drastic: she placed me, other family jewels, important documents, cherished
photographs, and heirlooms in a small box, and she buried it in the backyard of
the house.
While
I was underground, waiting and hoping to be unearthed, devastation fell upon
the Malik family.
On
May 25, 1944, the entire family – eighteen members in total - was placed on the trains to Auschwitz.
Only
two souls from the family – Eliezer and Sara – survived the first day. Everyone
else was murdered upon arrival. Sara died some time later from starvation and
despair.
Eliezer
survived Auschwitz. He then narrowly survived Buchenwald. After these nightmares
and his subsequent liberation, he made his way home.
When
he arrived, however, he found nothing there, as the home was completely leveled
during the family’s absence, and all that remained was the corner wall of his
father’s study.
He
knew I was in the backyard with the family’s valuables – he had witnessed the
burial of the box - but he did not bother with the matter at this time. He must
have felt that unearthing memories alone was too painful an experience. I would
remain in the earth until he could resolve his troubled emotions.
Eliezer
found lodging with his surviving cousin, Aiber Ganz, in another part of town.
Several
months later, Benzion arrived at home as well to find the same destruction – he
had survived the front lines of Operation Barbarossa, multiple bullets and
bombs, 3.5 years in a Russian military camp, a narrow avoidance of cannibalism
due to unimaginable starvation, the final battle of WWII, a 1,600-mile walk
home from the Arctic Circle, and near poisoning – standing in front of him.
A
kind neighbor noticed Benzion slumped in front of his house in despair – he had
survived so much to come home to find nothing – and told him that his brother
was alive, and back in town. She sent her son to fetch Eliezer, and the two
were reunited. They were the last remnants of their family.
It
was only upon their reunion that Eliezer decided to unearth the few family
treasures that remained from the entire life that the family had built though
the times of simplicity and happiness.
Eliezer
and Benzion placed the box in a safe place while they began to rebuild their
lives. I was not free yet.
I
finally emerged from this box on a beautiful day: Benzion had met a lovely
young lady named Brana Stein – daughter of Wolf and Rachel Scharfstein Stein –
at a singles event staged by the community. He betrothed her with his mother’s
ring, and I remained in her possession and loving care until her passing in
2004, a few weeks shy of her 79th birthday.
Between
her engagement and her passing, Brana had three children: Aharon Zev, Laizer
Moshe, and Chantze Rachel.
We
were together for 58 years, through moves to Israel, and to the United States.
After
her passing, Brana’s husband Benzion, placed me and Brana’s jewels in an Anchor
Bank safe deposit box for about a decade. Once again, I waited and hoped to see
the light of day.
A
few years before his passing, Benzion decided to bequeath the contents of the
bank box to his daughter,
Chantze
Malik Wicentowsky inherited me and the rest of her mother’s jewels. Admittedly,
I am, in my fullness, a bit too baudy for this era. Mrs. Wicentowsky kept me in
her home, but wondered perpetually what practical use she could make of me.
Time
moved on; Mr. Malik passed away in 2014.
Now
Mrs. Wicentowsky was always thinking of ways to express her appreciation for
her daughter-in-law, Mrs. Naomi Storfer Bodek. She was struck by an idea: the
ring she had in safekeeping that she had received from her mother and her late
father. What if she plucked one of the diamonds, gifted it to Naomi, and asked
her to make something beautiful for herself?
That’s
exactly what she did. I emerged once more from a sealed box, surrendered a
single, gorgeous diamond from my whole, and was presented to Naomi.
Naomi,
in turn, had me embedded in a pretty pendant, attached to a lovely silver
chain, and reintroduced to the world in my new form. She absolutely loves it
and wears it every day.
I
wish both Mrs. Wicentowsky and Mrs. Bodek long, healthy lives. It’s good to be
out here in the daylight.
