The Family
Page 37
Sam and Gladys spent a few weeks at a beachside hotel in Netanya, a short drive from Kfar Vitkin, and then moved to Tiberias, the ancient city overlooking the Sea of Galilee where Chaim had come for yearly spa treatments. In Tiberias, Sam suffered a massive heart attack and was rushed to the Poriya Medical Center. He died in Israel at the age of eighty-four.
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Hyman, the last of the Cohen brothers, died in his sleep of a heart attack in 1980 at the age of eighty-eight. Thirteen years before his death, Hyman wrote and self-published a memoir called As I Recall about “the three-quarters of a century of my life.” Since “I never kept diaries,” as he stated in the preface, the book was based on “recollections from memory.” Despite some errors of fact and a bit of self-serving spin, the book is the best—in fact the only—account of the Cohen brothers’ childhood in Rakov, their early struggles on the Lower East Side, the founding and decades-long flourishing of A. Cohen & Sons. That chapter of family history came to an end in 1978, when financier Ronald Perelman took control of Cohen-Hatfield Industries (as the company was called after its 1968 merger with Hatfield Enterprises) with a 1.9-million-dollar loan guaranteed by his wife. Perelman proceeded to liquidate the company’s holdings and fire nearly all of its employees, including family members. With proceeds from the liquidation of Cohen-Hatfield, Perelman trained his sights on McAndrews & Forbes Company, a licorice extract importer and producer. Perelman tapped Sam’s son-in-law Meyer Laskin, one of the few family members he had retained, to run McAndrews & Forbes. It was some consolation to out-of-work Cohens that the share price of the company stock, which had been limping along for years in the single digits, was valued at $58.50 when Perelman bought up the outstanding shares in order to take the company private. The sons and daughters of the three founding brothers—at least those who had held on to their stock—made out handsomely. And Sam’s son-in-law Meyer embarked on a new career in the international licorice trade.
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Sonia secluded herself for a year after Arik’s death, but her family drew her back into the world. “Despite her tragedies, Sonia regained her peace of mind,” says Benny. “All the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren were always happy to come to see her. Our mother had great patience, which she probably received from her father. Her face was always bright and happy.” Sonia also found consolation in memorializing her family’s history. Yad Vashem, the Holocaust memorial museum and archive in Jerusalem, had launched a massive project to assemble the names and stories of victims of the Shoah, and Sonia filled in cards with what she knew about the deaths of her mother, sisters, brothers-in-law, cousins, nieces, and nephews and sent them in. Each year, she observed Holocaust Remembrance Day—the twenty-seventh day of Nisan in the Jewish calendar, the day the Warsaw ghetto uprising began—with families from Rakov and Volozhin.
On Holocaust Remembrance Day of 1992, Sonia sat down with Benny and Benny’s oldest son, Rotem, to tell the story of her life—her girlhood in Rakov with Doba and Etl, the death of their sister Feigele during the Great War, her decision to make aliyah and the trip to Palestine in 1932, her romance and marriage with Chaim, their struggles together during the early years at Kfar Vitkin. Benny recorded the interview, edited it, and printed it up for the family. Sonia barely touched on her feelings; she said little about the agony she endured during the Shoah and nothing about Arik’s death. But her voice comes through clearly: the voice of a woman who has lived courageously, suffered unbearably, and who has made peace with her tragedies. The confidence and conviction of the pioneer never left her. “She did not count her difficulties,” says Benny. “She never looked for a comfortable life. Bringing children, grandchildren and greatgrandchildren into life in the Land made her happy. She taught us to know, to forgive, not to be angry or carry a grudge.” Sonia was truly one of the mothers of a nation.
Among the descendants of Shimon Dov, Sonia had lost more than anyone, yet she lived her final years in tranquility. Family brought her not only warmth but also peace. In the interview with Benny and Rotem, Sonia called her mother, Beyle, “a tzadeke—a very charitable God-fearing woman”—and in her own way, Sonia was a tzadeke too. She was religious, she honored the ways of her ancestors, she loved her parents and sisters deeply, and yet she was willing to break all her past ties for the cause she believed in.
Sonia and Chaim realized their dream. They brought the line of the scribe to Palestine and played a part in the violent metamorphosis of Palestine into Israel. After the Shoah, Sonia felt it was her obligation to have more children so that her family would have a stake in Israel’s future.
Early in 1996, Sonia traveled to Jerusalem to visit the grave of Yitzhak Rabin, the Israeli statesman and Labor prime minister who had signed the Oslo Accords with PLO leader Yasser Arafat and was assassinated in November 1995. It was her last trip. Sonia fell and broke her hip at the family Passover seder in the first week of April 1996. The doctors refused to operate because of Sonia’s weak heart. She spent her last weeks immobile but clear in mind and memory and surrounded by her entire family. Her three surviving children were with her the day before she died at the age of eighty-six. Sonia had outlived her son Arik by twenty-three years, her husband, Chaim, by thirty-one years, her sister, Doba, by fifty-three years, and her sister, Etl, by fifty-four years. Her gravestone in Kfar Vitkin’s cemetery bears the names and dates of the mother and sisters who perished without graves or prayers to mark their passing.
EPILOGUE
The family that Sonia and Chaim started in Palestine when they married in 1933 continues to flourish in the Land. They currently have thirty-two living descendants, and the number keeps growing.
The American family has also been fruitful. The six children of Abraham and Sarah who lived to maturity—Itel, Ethel, Harry, Sam, Hyman, and Lillie—all married and had children of their own, and most of their children have children and grandchildren. At last count, there are 101 of us scattered around the country, mostly on the coasts. My limb of the family tree is a crowded one: my grandfather Sam had four children with his first wife and one child, a daughter named Leona, with his second wife, Gladys. Leona married Meyer Laskin in 1948 and gave birth to four sons, of which I am the third. So Shimon Dov is my great-great-grandfather, Itel my great- aunt, and Doba, Etl, and Sonia my first cousins twice removed.
I thought a lot about the family tree when I traveled to Israel in the spring of 2010 to meet with Sonia and Chaim’s three children. I was fifty-six years old, married, the father of three grown daughters myself, a vigorously secular Jewish American writer embarked on a new book. I had never been to Israel before, but it seemed like the place to begin researching the family story. After all, it was my Israeli cousin Shimon (technically my second cousin once removed) who inspired the idea when he told me that the evil Lazar Kaganovich was not part of the family but that seventeen victims of the Shoah were. Shimon assured me that he and his sister, Leah, and brother Benny would do whatever they could to help. So I bought plane tickets for me and my oldest daughter, Emily.
We landed in Tel Aviv on a warm afternoon in May. Shimon collected us from our hotel in Netanya and drove us to his brother’s house in nearby Avi Hayl. The greetings at the door were cordial but awkward. Benny’s wife, Orna, suggested we sit outside on the patio in the shade behind the house. She served us mint tea (the mint leaves were from her garden), hummus, and carrot cake. For one jet-lagged instant I wondered what I had gotten myself into. Shimon and I had met once, many years earlier, at my grandparents’ apartment, but I would have walked right by him on the street. All I knew about Benny was that he was the baby of his family, born three years before me, and that he liked basketball (“Benny speaks NBA,” a young American relative who had studied in Israel told me when I asked about Benny’s English). I had never met Orna or heard her name. These three were perfect strangers. Yet here we were sipping tea and sharing intimate knowledge about the people and history we had in common.
“We have letters,” Benny let drop right before we went back to the hotel, “many letters from the family in Rakov and Volozhin. The last was a postcard that Doba sent my mother right before the Nazis invaded in 1941. But there is a problem. All of the letters were written in Yiddish [Benny pronounced it “Iddish”] so none of us can read them.” This is a problem we will solve, I was thinking. It took a year and a half, but eventually, between us, the Israelis and I had all 281 letters translated into both Hebrew and English.
In the week that followed, Shimon and Benny took Emily and me on a tour of all the places their parents had lived, the colonies and settlements where they had learned to farm, the house and the fields at Kfar Vitkin, the moshav cemetery where their brother and grandfather and parents are buried under stones bearing the hands of the Kohanim. We stood together over the trickle of salty water that had once sustained the tiny precipitous Kvutza Har Kinneret, where Chaim had come as a boy of eighteen. We drove up the coast as far north as we could and got out of the car at Rosh HaNikra just steps from the Lebanese border, so we could take in the same panorama that had dazzled Sonia when she made aliyah by taxi in 1932. We sat together at kitchen tables amid stacks of photos, bundles of letters none of us could read, notebooks, pages printed off the Web. It was at these kitchen tables in Israel that I felt the presence most intensely of those who came before—not only the impossibly beautiful pioneer couple, but also their anxious families back in Poland and my great-grandfather Avram Akiva sending checks from America, keeping tabs on his niece and nephew in Kfar Vitkin, reading with amazement letters written from a land he knew inch by inch from the Bible but would never see with his own eyes. I felt them bearing down on me, these generations of pious, bearded Kohanim scribes, as I stood by the Western Wall in Jerusalem with the slip of a prayer I folded and stashed in a crack already wadded with prayers. To pray by the Wall would have crowned their lives. Why me and not them?
They would have found the answer to such a question in God—I look to history, family history, family story. Stories arise because something happened—but to close the circle, someone needs to discover what happened and be willing and able to say it. Our parents and grandparents could not bear to tell the story of the branch that was destroyed. But Benny and I, independently and then in partnership, committed ourselves to bringing our shared story to light.
The following year I returned to Israel for a week, this time with my three brothers, my oldest brother’s wife, and their firstborn son: a trip to honor our father, who had died at the end of 2010. Benny picked me up from the airport and together with Shimon we went to the archive and museum of the Ghetto Fighters’ Kibbutz (Beit Lohamei Haghetaot) to research Klooga. I told Benny that I had plans to go to Belarus and Lithuania to see the places where our European relatives had lived and died. Halfway through the week, Benny decided to join me on what he called the “roots trip,” and by the end of the week Shimon and his oldest son, Amir, and Benny’s son Rotem had signed on too. I enlisted my daughter Emily, who speaks Russian. In the middle of May 2011, the six of us met at a small wooden inn deep in the lush green Belarusian countryside. Together we visited Rakov and Volozhin; we walked through the crumbling hall of the Volozhin yeshiva, which has survived two world wars and the death of its students and teachers; we scouted out the street near Rakov’s brick Catholic church where Sonia, Doba, and Etl grew up. We traveled to Vilna—now Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania—and searched out the two apartment buildings where Doba and Shepseleh lived and raised their sons. We drove out to Ponar to say kaddish at the cratered pit where Shepseleh and tens of thousands of Lithuanian Jews lie buried. We walked to a hillside at the edge of Volozhin and said kaddish over the pit where Chaim’s brother Yishayahu may have been shot. We said kaddish in the small grassy clearing where the Rakov synagogue burned with Etl and her children inside.
Over dinners, we talked about how this could have happened. How could Germany have changed so radically between the First and Second World Wars? Would the Shoah have happened without Hitler? “One man can change history,” Shimon said many times. But why would God have created Hitler and allowed him to triumph so brutally? The more we knew of the horrors, the less we understood its perpetrators.
In Rakov, after much searching in the tangled grass of the cemetery of exile that had depressed Sonia, we found the grave of our common ancestor, Shimon Dov. Shimon and Benny had come prepared. They scrubbed the headstone with steel wool, placed candles and Israeli flags around it, and we said kaddish for the patriarch as well.
Our parents and grandparents never made this trip. It wasn’t that they couldn’t face what had happened. They were inventors, entrepreneurs, pioneers, explorers, survivors. Tough-minded realists. Courageous fighters. Extravagant givers. But the telling of the story fell to us.
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The pulse of history beats in every family. All of our lives are engraved with epics of love and death. What my family gained and lost in the twentieth century, though extreme, was not unique. War has touched all of us. Fate and chance and character make and break every generation. The Shoah was not the only genocide. America is not the first land of opportunity nor will it be the last. Warring peoples have fought over the Holy Land for thousands of years, all of them claiming to have God on their side. In a family history written by Palestinian Arabs, Chaim and Sonia and their fellow Zionists would be oppressors; the Koran, not the Torah, would be the holy book; Jerusalem would be a besieged, stolen city. Open the book of your family and you will be amazed, as I was, at what you find.
My ancestors believed that the book that sustains the Jewish people is the Word of God, but it was they who copied God’s words and kept the book alive. Long ago, I walked away from their book, their faith, and their traditions, but in middle age I have come back to their stories. I used to think these stories could never be mine because fundamentally we had little in common: they were strangers with my DNA, these short, dark, striving men and women with their burning eyes and fierce desires. I had left their path and chosen my own. I don’t pray. I don’t observe the cycle of the Jewish year. I rarely read the Bible. Thoughts of God, when I have them, arise not in synagogue but in wild solitary places. It often occurs to me that my life, my beliefs and irreverent spirituality, would make them snort and shrug. We’re so different. I don’t belong—we don’t belong. But in middle age—late middle age, as my wife likes to remind me—I’ve changed my mind. The last of Shimon Dov’s European descendants was shot and incinerated at Klooga nine years before I was born. I lived fifty-five years without knowing his name, without wondering about his story, without seeing how his story is bound to mine. “All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be,” the Bible tells us. My days and the days of my cousin Shimon and the days of my grandfather Sam and his siblings and cousins in Israel are written in that book. My book, this book, is the only way I know to search the radiant lines inscribed for us, to b
ring into consciousness some glimmer of our light.
In telling their story I have made it my own. Even my own brothers would have different versions. It would be foolish to believe that I, that we, that our generation alone can see and say the truth. I know there are events we refuse to acknowledge, tragedies we steer clear of, facts we deny at our peril, fictions we entertain to deceive ourselves. Our children will laugh—or weep—at the walls we have built and huddle behind. And yet, just as we cannot unblind ourselves, so we cannot will our curiosity or channel its consequences. We don’t choose our stories any more than we fashion the moment in which to tell them.
I have told this story out of reverence for my family but also, to be honest, because I can. It is their story, but in writing it I have claimed it. For now, thanks to Benny, this story is in my hands. But it doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to all of us.
Shimon Dov, a Torah scribe in the yeshiva town of Volozhin in the second half of the nineteenth century, who was the son, father, and grandfather of scribes.
Beyle, Shimon Dov’s wife and the mother of his six children, who supported the family on the proceeds of her small grocery store.
A contemporary view of the Volozhin yeshiva, Europe’s most esteemed and influential center of Torah study for much of the nineteenth century.
A composite portrait, assembled from three different photos, of Abraham Cohen and family. From left to right: Lillie, Abraham, Sarah, Anna; Hyman (inserted from a different photo) at the center; then Sam (in bow tie), Harry (seated), Ethel, William (seated with his son, Lewis, on his lap), and Itel.
Hyman, the youngest of Abraham and Sarah’s three sons, at the time of his bar mitzvah in Rakov in 1905.