Triumph Over Tears

by Nava Chernoff

  Dad was dying. I finally came to that realization and really wanted to be ready for it. What I discovered is that nothing can prepare you for the loss of a parent. I visited Haifa as often as I could. Two weeks before the end, I called Mom and told her that if she would like to see Dad ever again, she should come to visit as soon as possible. She did. Dad loved mom until the very end. He always regretted that they had gotten a divorce and always said that she was the best. Every time mom had a boyfriend, Dad would find some defects about him. He was funny in this matter. Even the way the man had his hair was not good. I remember asking Dad to give the man a break and thank God he can breathe. Dad looked at me and said, “If it were up to me, he would not breathe.” I laughed so hard that day. My first husband, mom, Yarden, Shani, and I drove to visit Grandpa Yuval. The kids loved him, especially Yarden. They had a strong bond. It was well known that Yarden was Dad's favorite grandson. It was hard to see Dad sitting in a wheelchair, wrapped with bandages from the feet to the knee, soaking wet.

  “Grandpa,” said Yarden.

  “Yes?” Dad answered back.

  “Does it hurt? Your legs? Can you walk?”

  “Do not worry, Yarden. Grandpa will be fine,” he answered.

  My heart broke when I saw tears in Dad's eyes. He knew he was not going to be fine. But how can you tell your five-year-old grandson that you are dying? Dad left it for us to do. We went to Dad's house to eat lunch, but really to give mom and dad a chance to say goodbye. At the end of the visit, we kissed and hugged. With broken hearts, sadness and silence, we drove back to the kibbutz. For my husband, mom, Yarden, and Shani, it was the last time to see my father. I was with him as often as I could be. The two hour drive to visit Dad was easy, and short compared to the trip to Eilat. For that I was grateful. Dad and I would talk on the phone every day, sometimes twice a day. The last day, I called early in the morning, before I went to work. The nurse said that Dad had a long night and he was in dialysis treatment. I left a message with her and told her I would call later. I did as I said, but the nurse still would not let me talk to him. She said he was tired and to try later. The second time, I was very concerned and I called my sister. Unfortunately, she confirmed my bad vibes. After talking to the family all night long, the first thing in the morning—5:00 AM to be exact—I found my way to Haifa. Dad was in bed, in and out of consciousness. When he was conscious, he looked around but did not seem to know where he was. His arm was in the air, his head looking in the same direction as his arm, and he repeated the same sentence over and over again, arm waving: “Go away, go away!” Arm reaching, “Mama, mama!” My heart was breaking. My father, the strong man I had known all my life was having a horrible end of life. I was very frustrated because there was nothing I could do to ease his pain and discomfort. This was the end, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. While all three of his daughters were there to witness this, the two sons were away. “I am coming now,” Ofer said. “I need to bring Dad a photo of Osher.” Osher was Ofer’s first-born child. “Do not be silly,” I told him. “If you leave now, you will get here late at night anyway. Stay with your wife and newborn. Come on the first morning bus to Haifa. You will be here by noon.” We were waiting for the neurologist to visit Dad.None of the medical staff showed any concern that Dad would pass away that day. We all believed that Ofer and Elan had more time. The unthinkable happened. I had to leave Dad and return the car to the kibbutz. I called Meir, the kibbutzʼs car manager, and asked him to let me stay with Dad, as he was in critical condition. Meir said he could not because the car was assigned to someone else. I had to get it back right away. I looked at my sisters and said, “If Dad comes out of his delusional state, you tell him I was here all day for him and that I will be back as soon as I can.” I looked at the clock and said, “He should see the doctor any minute. In five hours, I will see you again. Hopefully, we will have the results of the last test.” I hugged my sisters and left with a heavy heart. I called my sisters every fifteen minutes. I wanted to hear good news and talk to Dad. I had no luck. I drove to the kibbutz, dropped off the car in a very angry and agitated state, and made sure Meir knew it. I was polite and respectful but sent a very strong message. Going back to Haifa was a long two hours. I had to return via public transportation. First the bus to Jerusalem from the kibbutz, then a second bus to Tel Aviv and at last the train to Haifa. It is not difficult or uncomfortable on a normal day. But when you know it could be your fatherʼs last day on earth, every time I made a transfer I felt like crying. It was an excruciatingly long trip. My last call before I arrived at the hospital was from the train, “Ofra, give me good news. I am almost there.”

  “Dad is up. Talk to him,” she said.

  “Nava, where are you?” He said.

  “I was there with you all day. I had to return the car to the kibbutz. I will see you in ten minutes,” I said, but he did not answer.

  Ofra was on the phone. “Heʼs out again.” “Did you tell him I was there?”

  “Yes, we did.”

  Those words were my last exchange with my Dad. I found out that the doctor did not attend to him all day. I decided to find him and physically bring him to Dad. By the time I tracked him down, he was at my Dad's side. I had followed the doctor from one station to the other. Just as I got to Dadʼs room, the nurse closed the door on me, and the crash cart ran in. I called mom and said, "it's the end, the crash cart just went in, do not tell Ofer yet until I talk to the doctor." A few minutes later the doctor came out.

  Shushan Purim—March 2, 1999—was a very tragic day in my life. My very first experience of what is the real meaning of “broken heart” My father passed away. I did not believe that I would ever be able to mend it. I thought and felt that my heart was going to pop out of my chest. I felt I would be drowned in my own tears. Adding more agony to my already painful body were thoughts of his last words to me. “Nava, where are you?” Dad passed away.

  Shushan Purim will never be the same. I called mom again and confirmed the sad news, made sure she emphasized to Ofer that even if he left Eilat when he planned, he would never make it on time. I had no time to mourn as I stayed behind to take care of the formalities for the funeral. I had to do all the paperwork and fly with Dad to Eilat. My sisters and their families drove to Eilat the same evening. I finally fell asleep on a chair outside of the morgue, still in disbelief that my father was gone. After the Shiva, one week later, I was back at the kibbutz with Yarden, Shani, my husband, and my lover. I made up my mind. I had to get my life back together. Everything was falling apart around me.

  It was time for me to triumph over my tears.

  Dadʼs house in Eilat was ours. We bought it many years prior to Dad's death. He lived there rent-free. I decided to leave the kibbutz and move to Eilat. My husband agreed, saying that maybe if we changed our way of living our relationship would get better. I have to admit that I loved it in the little house in Eilat, to be back next to the Red Sea, surrounded by desert and hugged by the sun most days of the year. Yes, I loved it. I had to part from my lover. I did all I could to build our family life again. Everything fell back into place except the relationship with my husband. I went to college while the kids were in school, and had an after-school program at home so that I could be with Yarden and Shani. Financially, we were going the right direction, young couple with no debt. The kids were happy. We fixed up Dad's house to perfection. I could not live without love and intimacy. I felt too young to have such a routine. I was only twenty-seven. Old people lived like that, not me! (That thought would come back to bite me later.) And yet, I did not want anything to do with men. Everywhere I went there were predators. My college professor, at the grocery store and the pharmacy, the father of one of my students—they all took on the shape of a praying mantis.

  UNTIL I met Tom Chernoff, the American man that would change my life forever.

  *************************************

  THE SEARCH. When the
search for my Aunt Gerda and Uncle Fred began, computers were not my forte and search engines were not as effective as they are today. Most of my search for the first few years was by snail mail. The fact of the matter was that I had no clue how to look for Aunt Gerda and Uncle Fred.

  The starting point was very frustrating since the search began with few to no details regarding their location, last names, families or even ages. I did not have any idea how to start. I had days that I brainstormed alone as to who I can send the letters requesting information. I sat at my desk late at night and prayed for a tiny clue, to make the beginning easier. I wanted to get angry at my dad for putting the pressure on me to find them. I did not have it in me. I could not get mad, just frustrated.

  My starting point was searching for Aunt Gerda and Uncle Fred in England. This was a big mistake—huge— and it cost me years of searching with nothing to show for it. It is comparable to searching for someone named John in New York City or finding a needle in a haystack. When I saw the first stamped letter, that was sent from a museum in England. I anxiously tore open the envelope to read it. To my great disappointment, it had no information about Jewish Children that were transferred to England. I was covered with unexpected sorrow and fear. I might never find them.

  As my search progressed I learned that it is better to start the search from the end, not from the beginning. Going back as far as I could, following my father's footsteps was the better way. It meant starting to learn about the family ’s whereabouts and how they escaped during the Holocaust. Before Dad passed away, he would read any new evidence I uncovered. Sometimes it would jostle his memory and help with the family history or whereabouts. After Dad passed away, I had to work with new material by myself.

  The young adults of the community in Danzig had been transported to England on the Kinder Transport. I finally hit useful information! I stumbled upon the Kinder Transport by accident. I thought that was a step in the right direction. Elated and sure that the search was close to an end, I found an organization that had all the details regarding the transport, including names and dates. I sent them a letter asking for information regarding my aunt and uncle, licked the stamp, which suddenly tasted great, and with a shaking hand, I dropped the letter into the mailbox. I thought that was all there was to it. For the message to arrive in England, be reviewed, and with approval, I would get fantastic news. This was only in my best dreams. But giving up is not in my nature. I checked the mailbox every day, twice a day, for months, hoping that I would have a reply. Instead, I learned that the AJR organization, due to their privacy policy, could not tell me where Aunt Gerda and Uncle Fred were living. I could not prove to them that Uncle Fred was my uncle and that Aunt Gerda was my aunt. I was not immediate family to them. I needed consent from them.

  Consent? If I had permission from Fred or Gerda, I would not need the search! So how could I prove that my father is Gerda and Fredʼs brother? I could not. After several exchanges with AJR, I gave up on them and looked for a different venue. It was sad to learn that they could help but chose not help. My clock was ticking. We were talking about second and third generations of survivors. But I did not stop searching. Internet databases improved, and more details regarding the Second World War were exposed. This is how I learned about the list.

  Some of the letters that I sent with requests for information were more like throwing darts at a target in a dark room. But I had nothing to lose. My frustration grew greater. I felt that I was running out of time. I knew that Gerda and Fred were older, and Dad was in his late sixties, which made them in their seventies, maybe in poor health, or worse. I was very sorry and saddened when I finally discovered through Aunt Gerda’s children, she had already passed away.

  During my research, I stumbled over a website that held my surviving familyʼs records, which indicated that my father's name was Leckner.

  I contacted the institute, exchanged information with Doctor Peter. I received a copy of my dad’s card. Reaching someone who responded was great. When you feel so close, confident, and high, you are at triumph. Often shortly after comes the fall. Usually, it is worse than the top and very painful.

  The card reads “Leckner, Eitel, 23,11,32, Danzig, 8032.”

  Following that lead made me request dad’s wrong information. I was looking for the false birth certificate, Eitel Leckner 1932.

  This card is significant because it confirmed that my father's name was Eitel. But, to my surprise, I learned that he was registered in Israel as nine months older than he was. When Dad had told me once that he thought he was younger than the birth date on his driverʼs license, I had not absorbed it. It was an insignificant detail in my opinion. It later proved that every little aspect has significance.

  One of my shot-in-the-dark letters was to a Gdansk archive. I have to say that I was surprised to see a response a few months later, as my message to them was very confusing, even for me. I told them I was searching for Gerda and Fred who maybe had the last name Leckner, Meyersohn, Aharonson, or Loewenthal, and I was not sure if I was spelling the names right.

  They replied to me on December 2, 2005:

  Saying that they would search for the information that I sent them made me thrilled. I visited dad’s grave and shared the news, with happy and sad tears mixed when rolling down my cheeks. Dad was not there to share the joy. Finally, someone cared. I was ecstatic. I doubted the woman who replied to my letter understood the impact of this. I do not know if she was doing her job or was on it to help out. I do know that this woman made it all possible for me, and renewed my energy to continue my search for finding my uncle and aunt.

  I GOT IT! Gdansk archives did it! They found my uncle and aunt in the old records. Fred Loewenthal, born September 14, 1931. Gerda Loewenthal, born October 6, 1928. I had real names, with proper spellings, and birth dates. These were sure things for finding them— actual, authentic records. I wrote the archive back and asked for records for the rest of the family on behalf of my aunts. They all received their birth records. What great people work in the archives in Gdansk, Poland.

  The one record they could not find was my father's.

  Another discovery was that Yarden and Uncle Fred are sharing the same birthday, 63 years apart. That date seemed to be very important in my search. I had a clue under my nose without knowing it. This would all be clear soon.

  Also after receiving Gerda and Fred’s birth certificate, I learned that my grandmother Elizabeth did not register a father. She named them both after her maiden name. I sent another letter to Gdansk archive requesting the birth certificate of Eitel Lowenthal November 23rd, 1932 hoping to discover the truth about my dad’s birth record as well as who is my grandfather.

  I received Dad’s birth certificate. The feelings I had while reading his birth certificate, were equivalent to the joy AFTER birth when the pain is gone, and the results are beyond perfect. I finally knew who dad is. When and where he was born. Reading it carefully I found out that I have no grandfather. No record of him at all. “The single worker,” it says. Three children in three years and no father! I was a bit confused and saddened.

  I was one step closer to finding Gerda and Fred. I had confirmed that they were on the Kinder Transport and I had everyoneʼs original names. The processing of every detail was taking months and years, and my clock was still ticking. Gerda and Fred were older than my Dad. Gerdaʼs record from 1947 stated that Gerda Loewenthal was now Taylor. Because Fred's history did not have any change of name, I assumed he was still Loewenthal. This was another big mistake. This one cost me two years! Gerda's name was changed because her family adopted her. She became Taylor. Fred's name was also Taylor, but never officially, so his record stayed Loewenthal. Looking for Gerda did not help since she remarried and her last name was Abrams. Two long years went by with absolutely nothing as far as my original search. I did find a cousin in Germany. While talking to the family about my research, I found out that a cousin of mine, Roni, was also searching the family roo
ts. From one we became two. We helped and shared the information we had.

  Andrea and Yuachim in Germany, very friendly cousins, were also a big help. After cross-checking the information we had, we found out that our grandmothers were sisters. They were looking for Lotty, my grandmother's sister. Sometimes the information I carried with me was good, but hurt the research. Helping Andrea and Yuachim taught me another lesson—to cross-reference my knowledge with others. In Yad Vashem, I found a document about Lotty that indicated that she had been in the Shtutov concentration camp. With the document in my hand, I visited the archives of Shtuthov concentration camp—only to find that there were no records indicating that Lotty was ever there. The worst part of research is that after years of building a theory, it comes crashing down around you and you need to go back to the beginning. Do not ever give up. If you do not find a grave, there is still hope. Unfortunately, a lot of our subjects were murdered and vanished into thin air. As my research and knowledge grew, I learned more about other families, history, and survivors. I always have respect for those who share their horror stories with the world, even though they know that the world cannot comprehend it. It is not easy to stand up publicly and announce that your family was shot in front of your eyes. But you lived because the Nazi officer liked you and used you for sex; that you begged for him to kill you when he was done with his brutal act; and that you are still standing to tell the story. Or, another survival story of a woman who gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. The Nazis let her breastfeed the baby for two days. When she had enough milk they tied her breast and monitored how long it would take for her or the baby to die. She said she had to kill her baby boy. He was dying from starvation, and to take her own life meant to kill him too by another brutal experience. Listening to these awful stories I understood my fortune. My Dad had survived, and as result of it I was born.