Copyright © 2019 by Gerda Krebs Seifer
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Print ISBN: 978-1-54396-704-3
eBook ISBN: 978-1-54396-705-0
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Foreword
Author’s Note
Introduction
Preface
Childhood in Przemyśl
World War II
End of the War
Leaving England
America
First Return to Poland
Anka Piper
Letter from Eva Sokoluk
Przemyśl
Return to Lwów
Freedom Writers
Bełżec Memorial
The Hidden Child
Trip to Israel and Poland
Mother’s Building In Przemyśl
The Diary of Anne Frank Opera
Yom Hashoah
My Heart is a Violin
Since Then
Epilogue
Afterword
Afterword
Afterword
For my beloved parents,
Edyta Goliger Krebs and Henryk Krebs
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Professor Bill Younglove for his early help and encouragement in my memoir writing. Over the course of months and years, I sent him emails upon emails of my individual essays. He patiently checked, re-checked, and corrected my mistakes and duplications. I truly appreciate his opinion of my memoir writing, though I feel he has been too generous in his praise.
When Bill taught the history of the Second World War at Millikan High School in Long Beach, he invited me to speak to his class each year. After he retired, our paths crossed again during the planning stages of the Teachers Workshop on the Holocaust at CSULB, along with Professors Jeff Blutinger and Don Schwartz. I learned how intimately he is involved in the study of the Holocaust, the number of meetings he attends, and the many boards he serves on. He knows so much and is so dedicated, and I am sincerely grateful for all he has done for me.
Bill, thank you, thank you, thank you!
To Ellie Brook, who was the first to encourage me to write my story and who is a dear friend. Ellie introduced me to Cecilia Fannon, my editor.
To Cecilia, for helping me see my memoir to completion.
And especially to Harold, for his lifelong and unflagging support.
Foreword
I am so very pleased that Gerda Seifer has, at long last, literally, committed to telling her complete story. As many Southern California community members certainly well know, Gerda is a Holocaust survivor. Parts of her extraordinary life have been shared in various books, newspaper accounts, via electronic media, and in various museums. She has also shared with countless audiences over many decades just how she managed to survive the Nazis’ attempt to destroy her family’s city, home, possessions, livelihoods, and, finally, the members’ very lives. She describes here, in great detail, for the first time, the incredible, rich tapestry of home life that her loving parents had created for her— and how the perpetrators, Hitler’s henchmen, destroyed her father’s business, forced the family into the ghetto, and, ultimately, transported Gerda’s loved ones to their deaths. Only Gerda’s acquired survival skills, wisdom of her parents, luck via somewhat righteous Gentiles, and incredible perseverance, gave her the opportunity at life beyond the Third Reich’s annihilation plan for all Jews.
As Gerda succinctly puts it: One moment she was a Polish girl, one with everything to live for, surrounded by comfort; buttressed by friends, playmates, and classmates, and loved by two adoring parents. In the moments after the September 1, 1939 invasion of Poland, however, Gerda learned, painfully so, that she was, in German parlance, an Untermensch—a subhuman without human rights. What should have been her time of physically and mentally growing into adulthood, suddenly became, instead, five long years of fear, doubt, subterfuge, hiding in a cellar, household slavery, and the destruction of both her beloved parents.
Numerous times I have heard Gerda paint a verbal portrait of her mother, particularly. The montage that emerges of smells, foods, songs, dresses, movies, and faces culminate in remembrances, always, of Mamusia. Whether it was obtaining a new doll, a trip taken to outfit her preteen bedroom, a visit to an art show, attending an opera, daily studies at the dining table—or even a reprimand for too childish actions, Gerda shares the love, devotion, and wisdom with which her truly remarkable mother endowed her.
In many respects, Gerda’s story is best described by the words “beyond survival.” Spared—barely—by the degradation of the camps, but not the ghetto, she lived for some five years on the verge of a captivity that few youths in their teen years will ever have to experience. The unknowns about her parents’ own deaths haunted her for years. This book you have picked up to read is the complete tale of Gerda’s own odyssey. It has been a lifelong journey, to recover self, seek out those traumatic truths of her interrupted girlhood—and, interwoven—build a life anew in a place, a time, and a country that has, for the most part, valued the talents that those of the Jewish faith and culture have to bring, which are immeasurable. Thanks to people like Gerda, her beliefs—and her tenacity—will assure her own familial descendants, “one moment, a girl or boy”; the next, deservedly so, a world of opportunity.
The University of Southern California Visual Shoah Foundation is creating a hologram of Holocaust survivor testimony. Eventually, we are told, future students will be able to enter a circular auditorium and “meet,” and even question, a three-dimensional, projected image of a, perhaps, long-deceased Holocaust, or genocide, survivor telling his or her story.
I remember, however, an afternoon when Gerda, perhaps halfway through her years of such presentations, spoke to my sixth period class at a local high school. One young girl, very much in the dress style of then-popular “punk rock,” complete with miniskirt, sleeveless blouse, flaming red—and blue—hair, pierced nose, eyebrows, lips, and tongue, sat in a front row seat, not over six feet from Gerda’s chair. What made this teen most distinctive, however, from the rest of her school’s small clique, was what was beneath her torn, fishnet leotard stockings that emanated below that miniskirt—all the way to her sandals. Intricately displayed, at two-inch intervals, were carved-in-the-flesh, blue swastikas—at least a dozen visible ones on each leg. Complementing them were an equal number of red swastikas from her wrists to the upper edges of her blouse. During Gerda’s talk, the girl stared at her, stonily. Within seconds, however, of Gerda’s completed tale, the girl stood up, snatched an awaiting floral tribute from a surprised fellow student’s hands, and proceeded to fling her arms around Gerda’s neck. Puzzled—and more than a little concerned—I worked my way around to Gerda’s back to the chalkboard, to see the girl’s face. It was covered with tears. The wetness was already causing her heavy black mascara to run in streams down her face, over the flowers, and, indeed, onto Gerda’s own dress. After seemingly interminable moments, the girl abruptly broke her hold and ran out the door and down the hallway.
My concern now? It is mainly this: How will children of the future be able to embrace a hologram? Doing so is elusive. Gerda’s presences—and willingness to share, however—have helped create future allies in fighting recurring human atrocities. So, just as the rest of my students have enthusiastically applauded Gerda’s sharings over the years, I applaud those readers who have chosen to learn more about her remarkable life, recovered from an evil that, in different disguises, still inhabits, our fragile world.
/> Bill Younglove
Professor Emeritus
California State University Long Beach
Author’s Note
Some years ago, after telling my story of surviving the Holocaust to Professor Jeff Blutinger’s class at Cal State University Long Beach, I had an idea about creating a workshop for junior and senior high school educators to learn in detail about the Nazi genocide so that they, in turn, could teach the subject to their students. Jeff and Professors Don Schwartz and Bill Younglove were enthusiastic about my idea. With their help and seed money from donors such as myself, my husband, Dr. Harold Seifer, Eugene and Eva Schlesinger, and many other generous members of the Long Beach Jewish community, the Trained Endowed Teacher Workshop on the Holocaust began in August 2009. It has been enormously successful with the participants, and I have had the privilege of telling my story every summer since then.
The weeklong workshop reexamines major events that led up to the Holocaust in Europe and addresses the roots of prejudice. Noted historians, guest lecturers, and Holocaust survivors shed light on the causes and effects of anti-Semitism, discrimination, and indifference.
The workshop is dedicated to my parents, Edyta and Henryk Krebs, who perished in the Holocaust.
Introduction
Forty or more years ago, I was in Israel, traveling on my husband’s and my fourth UJA tour. While there, I heard Professor Nechama Tec give a powerful talk on surviving the Holocaust. Nechama came from Lublin in eastern Poland, about one hundred miles from Przemyśl, where I grew up. Our experiences were similar. Something Nechama said that day made me decide to talk to her at the end of her speech, and she encouraged me to write a memoir. Having heard hundreds of horrific stories from other survivors, I never thought my own memories worthy of a book, though I’ve been speaking about my experiences during the Holocaust for more than half a century.
Nechama is the author of many books and scholarly articles on the Holocaust and has encouraged other survivors to write their own life stories. Since she has a Ph.D. in sociology, she has, in my opinion, a far better grasp on certain issues to write books.
Still, so many Holocaust survivors have published memoirs—some who have doctorate degrees whose English is without blemish, some who are historians, and some who are Holocaust deniers. My own bookshelves are crammed with many of these books. Why should there be another memoir by one more Holocaust survivor?
Friends and students who have heard me speak urge me to write my story. “I’ll buy your book,” they say. I tell them I’ll think about it, turn it over in my mind. Despite their enthusiasm, I wonder who might read it except for my family who already know my story? Then I let the idea rest.
In the early 1960s, some people claimed that only those who were incarcerated in concentration camps were true survivors and that those who merely survived hadn’t suffered as much. Was it some kind of competition? Did one earn the title “survivor” by the length and depth of suffering? By what degree do we grade suffering? And when we assign the greatness of suffering, is it an honor to be a survivor?
Nevertheless, Nechama encouraged me to start a book of memoirs without worrying about how to be an author. “Just write,” she said. “And when you’re done, someone will help you make some sense of all your memoirs.” She legitimized for me the idea of writing. Of course, that was a long time ago, and I’m now 91 years of age. My notes have been waiting in the computer for some action for decades.
So I’ll begin my story with my earliest memories and see how it progresses.
I have a feeling that some of the events are a bit dim, eight decades on, though other events I remember in great detail. Other incidents are harder to remember, probably having lived during those terrible times under stress, frightened, chased, and forced into hiding. There are blanks in my mind now. Images are fading. It’s harder to remember certain people and events, certain smells and tastes. Getting old changes one’s outlook, memory, perspective, and even one’s voice—I can’t carry a tune any longer and I used to love to sing! My voice has become husky. However, when it comes to Russian or Israeli songs, I can still carry a tune fairly well. Maybe American songs from musicals are written in another key.
In writing individual essays, I have come across certain events that after so many years seem unlikely to have happened. I ask myself, “Did it really happen or is it my imagination?” And then just when I think I invented a story, I read the same statement and description from another survivor who went through the same experience as I did, and I realize I didn’t imagine these events after all. Some memories were so horrible that it’s hard to believe I actually performed certain tasks or ate food I wouldn’t dare touch today or performed acts I couldn’t have done under normal circumstances. Was it really me, Gerda, who behaved in such manner? No one told me what to do or what to say. How did I know how to act in those situations? I had no one to help me, coach me, encourage me, but I did what I had to do, and my actions helped me to survive.
Preface
It was dark and eerie. I sat on a wooden box in a four-by-six cubicle in a chilly cellar in the third largest city in Poland, Lwów. The cellar belonged to an ex-neighbor, the woman who hid me. I didn’t dare make any sound in case other tenants would come down to investigate suspicious noises. I could hear people’s footsteps outside on the street and occasionally the sound of heavy German soldiers’ boots marching by.
It was pitch dark, so I couldn’t read or write. All I could do was to sit and think about what was happening in the ghetto. Did Mommy go into hiding as she’d said she would?
Daddy worked outside the ghetto in a factory, making cloth for Nazi uniforms. He had come back one night with news that there would be a large-scale akcja, or roundup of Jews, and that people without jobs were going to be “resettled” somewhere else for work. My father had whispered to me to pack a few pieces of clothing because he was sending me into hiding. There was no time for any discussion; I had to obey.
Scared and lonely and helpless, I was utterly dependent on the mercy of the woman hiding me. I kept thinking about my home, my parents, and my old life: the dishes my mother used to prepare, the good times I had on vacations, my school and my friends. It was a carefree life. I realized I’d taken everything for granted up until then.
Day after day, I sat on my little box in a constant state of fear. Hours seemed to last forever. My only contact with the outside world was a quick visit twice a day by the neighbor hiding me. She brought food and emptied my chamber pot, but she brought no news. I felt suspended between life and death, unable to control my life or actions.
Childhood in Przemyśl
I was born on August 20, 1927, the only child of Henryk and Edyta Goliger Krebs. My parents named me Gerda, Gerda-Gitle in Yiddish, because they didn’t like the name Genia, my grandmother’s name. I grew up in the city of Przemyśl on Ulica Marszałka Józefa Piłsudskiego, No. 27, named after the Polish statesmen of the early 20th Century. I lived in that house all through my childhood until February or March of 1940.
The River San runs through the middle of Przemyśl, dividing it in two: the metropolitan area on the east and the suburb on the west, Zasanie. Our city had a picturesque European charm with a lovely park called Zamek, or castle, dating from 1842, situated in the hills. I played there as a child, digging in the sand with a bucket and a shovel, swinging on swings, and playing games with other children. Sometimes, I would walk to the top of the park where a tower stood, dating from World War I. In summer, plays were performed on its grounds. I was fascinated by the tower and sometimes imagined that it was haunted. I also had a great respect for it because I could almost visualize the fighting that had taken place in and around it.
In wintertime, I’d pull my sled to the top of the road leading to the park and coast down snow-covered streets. Once during the Russian occupation, a group of us decided to play hooky from school and ski in the park. Though skipping school was naughty and frowned upon, I enjoyed it all the same.
/> My maternal grandparents built our apartment house in the early 1800s. My parents and I lived on the ground floor in one of the eight apartments, renting out the rest. Ours was the only apartment with hot and cold running water and a built-in bathtub. Across the street from our building, my grandfather, David Goliger, had a lumberyard on the edge of the river San, where fresh-cut logs were transported directly from the river. There, in a large workshop of saws and machinery, logs were cut into boards used in construction. During the holidays when the lumberyard was closed and all the machines were shut down, my cousins and I played hide-and-seek, climbed stacks of logs, and had the run of the place. In summer, I swam in the San and sunbathed on the grass; in winter, when the river froze and the ice became thick, I skated on the river.
In a corner of the lumberyard, my grandfather had built a small synagogue where my father attended high Holy Days services, such as Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah. Older men holding prayer books davened, reciting prayers, swaying side to side or forward and backward, their heads covered with tallits, prayer shawls. At the front of the synagogue was the Aron Kodesh, or Holy Ark, the ornamental cupboard that housed the Torah. A low wall divided the room, and behind the wall were benches for women, an area that always looked sad and lonely to me, as if the little shul or synagogue were exclusively the domain of men. That obvious division between men and women began my thinking that certain religious laws were unfair to women.
In spring, as the weather warmed, the ice started melting, and floes glided down the river until all the ice had vanished.
What I remember clearly was the winter of 1939-1940 when the Soviets occupied the eastern part of Przemyśl and the Nazis occupied Zasanie, which means “beyond the San.” Hence, the river served as the border between Germany and Soviet Union; the people who lived in the city and suburbs were merely pawns of two occupying nations. Some tried to escape the Nazi occupation by crossing the river at night. They covered themselves with sheets and walked across the icy river to the other side. On some occasions, we were awakened in the middle of the night by a figure or figures shrouded in a sheet, knocking gingerly on our door, and begging us to let them in. We’d give them hot drinks and let them warm up; before daybreak, they would be gone. Sometimes shots rang out, meaning that the border guard had spotted them crossing the river and killed them.
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