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It took the Germans eighteen days, eighteen short days, to conquer Poland.
was not long after the whole population had been forced to register with the police that Jews received notices to turn in all gold, automobiles, bicycles, radios, even fountain pens. At first it did not seem to matter, because we were still at home, but life soon became more and more difficult.
At first they refused to be intimidated. Papa protested over and over again, “I didn’t do anything to anybody. I am not afraid.”
One of the boys, a classmate of Arthur’s, told us that after registering, many boys from other towns were taken to camp and killed. “Nonsense,” Arthur said to the boy, “what foolishness people try to invent.”
Old people, young people, and children all had been taken to the market place. There they had undressed and lain naked on the stones, face down, and the murderers on horses and brandishing guns trampled on that screaming human pavement. Many were killed by the horseshoes, the whips left bloody traces. After the initial thirst of the sadists was satisfied, those who remained alive had to march naked outside the town. They had to dig their own grave and stand on the rim until a hail of bullets killed them. Strangers embraced as they went to sleep forever.
Somehow we never believed that what happened to Jews in other towns would ever happen to us.
Why? Why did we walk like meek sheep to the slaughterhouse? Why did we not fight back? What had we to lose? Nothing but our lives. Why did we not run away and hide? We might have had a chance to survive. Why did we walk deliberately and obediently into their clutches? I know why. Because we had faith in humanity. Because we did not really think that human beings were capable of committing such crimes.
The soldiers were Americans; I knew as soon as I heard them speak to one another. Arthur had spoken their language a little. Tears welled from my eyes as they approached us. The German-speaking soldier patted me with his clean hand. “Don’t cry, my child,” he said with compassion, “it is all over now.”
I saw tears in his eyes. He wore battle gear with a net over his helmet. And as he wrote, I looked at him and couldn’t absorb enough of the wonder that he had fought for my freedom.
Their uniforms, their language, their kindness and concern made it true: we were finally free!
the United States is my country of choice, my adult home. This country represents the love I harbor for my husband, my children, and my grandchildren. One complements the other; by being mutually supportive, they enrich and heal. I fell in love with this country from the moment I first stepped upon its soil. It felt so right, so expansive, so free, so hospitable, and I desperately wanted to become part of the American mainstream.
For many years, for example, I could not articulate the word “furnace.” I would substitute the euphemism “heating unit” when speaking to a repairman who came to the house to fix it. I found that it was less of a jolt to think about the word than to articulate it.
The knowledge that my native tongue became repugnant to me strengthened my resolve to steep myself even more in my new language. It was fascinating to choose words from this seemingly inexhaustible font. I would acquire them in order to express what I needed to say.
How many times have I played over and over in my mind the implications of Mama’s decision to ignore the cable, stuffing it in her apron pocket in order to spare Papa the excitement so soon after his heart attack?
I marvel that I am totally free to say anything I want about our political leaders. In the world in which I lived for six years, such behavior could easily get you arrested … or worse.
over the years, there has often been a disconnect between my perspective on the various freedoms we Americans enjoy, and the views of my friends, the audiences to whom I have spoken, and even my own children. It is both slightly bewildering and highly satisfying to me that some things for which I am eternally grateful, they all—quite nonchalantly—accept as their birthright.
Over the years I have been privileged to speak at some exceptional venues. It would be dishonest not to acknowledge that those were thrilling occasions. But it would be equally untrue to fail to recognize that, at some level, I reached even more rarefied heights when, without fear, I have spoken freely on any topic to acquaintances and strangers alike, or when I have simply cast a vote for the candidates of my choice. These freedoms have been the sweetest blessings of my citizenship.
