Tag Archives: memoir

On Writing

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I always wanted to write a book. I remember when the idea first occurred to me.

Mariette I was nine years old and walking home from school. I had always been a model student receiving prizes at the end of the school year for my high achievements. This was in Belgium after the war. Having lost most of my family, my teacher paid special attention to me, guiding me into reading above my grade level. I also spent every afternoon in the library where the librarian recognized me as an unusual but sometimes sad little girl. She was always an attentive listener to my childhood woes and made sure to select books I would love. I knew I could depend on her being there to help me with my homework, greeting me every time I came into the library with her bright and welcoming smile. She introduced  me to the  tales and legends of the ancient Greeks and set my imagination on fire with her explanations of what was waiting for me in the adult section of the library.

One afternoon after my faithful stop at the library, filled with the drama of Charles Dickens in my head, I didn’t realize how quickly I reached the street where I lived with my father, his female companion and her retarded son. It was a very narrow alleyway, impossible for cars to go through. I remember it being cold and misty that late afternoon, which made the alleyway look even more mysterious. I looked up and saw the street lamp-lighter.

lamplighterI watched mesmerized as he lit the gaslights one by one with his long pole. The houses were clothed in mellow colors and the cobblestones glistened like jewels. Suddenly in my mind, the street appeared as a stage and he was lighting the stage lights. I stood there for a while as if in a dream, imagining myself walking onto that stage. I felt as if I was a character in a book that I was going to write someday.

It took a lifetime to accomplish. I wrote about my adventures. I processed my feelings into poetry. I experienced the existential angst of questioning my purpose on this planet. The years passed then flew by, sweeping into my consciousness the gnawing awareness of “the travel of no return” revealing Le moment de verite, that moment of truth when your entire life flashes before you.

I struggled with a sense of meaninglessness until I decided to write my memoir. I owe my friend Nancy Wait gratitude for rekindling that spark I felt as a child who dreamed of becoming an author. As my writing coach and editor, she guided me with patience and certitude, always believing that I would succeed.

The process of writing took ten years of learning a craft I deem sacred. I persevered through the frustrations of understanding what a good writer must do. Which is to invite the reader into this sacred realm of words, knowing that after the last page, a sense of timelessness has been achieved. And the gift of life has been acknowledged.

On Friendship

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Mariette and Mariette At this time of the year when most families are gathering to celebrate the holidays, I think about those of us who because of various misfortunes have lost the comfort of family and tradition. These times then become moments of reflection on what we have created to bring joy to our lives. My thoughts turn to the friends I have made over the years. They have sustained me and  have become family. They have given me joy and warmth and the courage that is needed to feel that one belongs in this sometimes cruel world.

Some are no longer friends, some have died, some may not always be available but they all have a place in my heart. But the most painful is the memory of friends who have died too young. It reminds me of the way my mentor and creative source, Michel de  Montaigne, dedicated his work to his best friend, La Boetie. When La Boetie died all too young, Montaigne wrote: ce jour qui pour moi sera toujours amer, toujours sacre. (That day which for me will always remain bitter, always sacred) And so I think of my friend Mariette, who died in her early twenties.

Mariette was the first friend I ever had. Sharing the same name gave us a special bond from the beginning. It was during the war in Belgium. We were both six years old at the time. Even then she was la grande and I was la petite. I had no other friends in those days because as a Jewish child hiding in a Catholic community, it was dangerous for everyone concerned that I not say anything that might connect me to being Jewish.

Mariette and I never discussed such things. We were children, and then young  adolescents sharing the joys and moments of celebration in the village where I returned every year to be with my benefactors. Then I left for America when I was twelve and never saw Mariette again.

I looked forward to our reunion when I went back “home” for the first time after ten years of separation. I was ecstatic to return to Belgium, and looking forward to seeing Mariette again. No one had told me that she had died a tragic death three weeks before I arrived.

Mariette,Flore,Ghislaine1She carried with her the memory of her own mother, blown to bits before her eyes. Mariette’s mother had taken too long to vacate the cellar where they were hiding and was struck by the fragments of a grenade. Now my friend Mariette had taken her own life.

I cannot forget her. I recently found a picture of her and her two cousins. She is sitting at the head of a wheelbarrow holding the handle which looks like a cross. For me it represents the cross she bore of having witnessed her mother’s death.

I dedicate this holiday to all the children suffering from the aftermath of war.

And I dedicate this memory to all those who are blessed, like myself, with friends dear enough to be family.

And lastly, I dedicate these words to my beloved friend, Mariette.

My Life Report – Part Two

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When I graduated from Brooklyn College I married a very rebellious young man who later became Alan Vega Suicide, one of the founders of the punk rock movement. Our marriage lasted ten years.

I thought I had been a good wife. In the sixties, that meant stick by your man no matter what. But that was impossible when the Ramones were colliding with my idol, Edith Piaf. By that I mean our tastes and habits were irreconcilable.

We divorced. I had a breakdown. When I recovered, I followed a young medical student to Shiraz, Iran. My years in Iran were the most fulfilling of my life. I met the Islamic world on a grand scale. I taught French at the University where I met a group of outstanding young adults. Whenever I asked them to translate words in Farsi they would remind me that I was there to teach them, not the other way around. I explained how wrong they were and then they went on to tell me about the mystics and the Sufis living in the area. It led me to a spiritual path that opened up a whole new awareness of being. I also traveled to Afghanistan, Nepal, and India where I encountered cultures I had only read about in books, and religious beliefs that made total sense to me.

Then I had the good fortune to go to Israel, where I reconnected quite by chance, with a woman I had known as a child in Belgium. She had been saved just as I had been. I learned that it was her sister who had placed us in the convent. This sister now lived in Brazil and knew the story of my family. So I went to Brazil and found the clues necessary for me to put together the puzzle of my early childhood and the family I had lost.

It took me ten years but I have now finished writing my memoir. It is a major accomplishment which fulfills a lifetime promise to myself. I gave it the title Mindele’s Journey – Memoir of a Hidden Child of the Holocaust. It was a soul searching endeavor, but in the writing I found the survivor, a spirit that resisted defeat. I learned very early on from the wonderful people who saved me, that love and compassion can overcome so many of our differences. I learned that no matter what happens there is a force that matches the will to overcome obstacles and challenges. Through our experiences we come to understand who we are, and what we are, in the world.

I have made mistakes along the way. The most painful one has been not having children. I never found a partner who stayed long enough for me to feel secure in bringing another life into the world. And I did not have the courage to face motherhood alone. Perhaps I should have been more persistent. Instead, I explored life and turned my love and compassion in other directions.

Click here if you missed My Life Report Part 1

My Life Report – Part One

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Iran 1976

All of history depends on memory which is one of the reasons why I needed to write my story. I want my words to be part of a legacy that not only hails the human spirit but gives credence to the survival of beauty, kindness and love in a world that seems to have gone mad. Although fear, intolerance and injustice still exist, we are experiencing a time when the power of love and light is manifesting and bringing us to the understanding that we are all ONE  emanation of a Divine power. Our stories sustain us, establish our place in time and space and link us to the rest of humanity.

My story is a  piece of the puzzle of the survival of spirit. Last fall, David Brooks of the New York Times asked people over 70 to write what he called “The Life Report.” I saw it as an opportunity to look at the memoir I had just written, which helped me to understand my past. Having lost most of my family in the Holocaust, the ghosts of the past still haunted me.

My story is a legacy to the memory of the family I lost, and also to the power of believing in a force that has guided me through chaos and challenges.

My father and me 1945

When I was four years old, my father grabbed my hand, pulled me out of an attic window, and dragged me over rooftops in Brussels, Belgium to escape the Nazis. My mother and four other siblings were not so lucky.

I was saved and given sanctuary in a convent in the  Belgian countryside.  It was an act of heroism on the part of the nuns who risked their lives in the face of great adversity. It has taken me a lifetime to understand why I survived. Very early on I knew that to be a Jew was to be different.  I also learned that there are people in the world whose love and compassion go beyond these distinctions. The loving nuns in Belgium and the Catholic women (siblings of the Mother Superior), the three sisters I called “les tantes,” who protected me throughout my childhood, have been my role models throughout life.

My father survived the war. When I was twelve we left Belgium to go to America to live with his sister in Brooklyn. I felt displaced not only because I couldn’t speak the language but also because I missed my Catholic family. School became my salvation. Within six months I learned English. I knew early on the importance of knowing other languages. I spoke Polish and Yiddish as a child. When the nuns took me into hiding, they immediately taught me French. But Belgium is a bi-lingual country so I also learned Flemish. Les tantes, proud of their heritage as women from the Ardennes, taught me the dialect known as “Walloon.” I was one multinational child!

My Family 1930s

In high school I became the protégée of the head of the language department, Dr. Albert Schwartz. We bonded immediately when he told me that he had lost family members during the war. They lived in Antwerp and were all deported. I was assigned students to tutor in French. I also excelled in other subjects and looked forward to going to Brooklyn College. But no one in the family approved of it. My aunt said her daughters were secretaries and that would be good enough for me. My stepmother did as well (my father had remarried). I decided to go to work part-time to pay for books and general fees which were very manageable in those days. I was not going to let myself be defeated by anyone who knew better than me what to do with my life. My father had always told me how stubborn I was.

I majored in education and French literature and became a teacher of French in the New York Public School System. I could not have chosen a better career. I used to say to myself “They pay me to do this?” I almost didn’t get licensed because I wasn’t quite five feet tall and that seemed to be a requirement. But the very high heels I wore for the interview did the trick. I loved my students and they loved me. I often felt they were the family I didn’t have. Every single one of them was special to me. Within a week I had memorized the one hundred and fifty names of students on my roster. Many of them would come during my free time to confide their teen-age angst. I used a most unforgettable text in class. I know because to this day I have students contact me (Face Book being the culprit) to tell me how significant the lessons were that they learned from “Le Petit Prince.” This wonderful book for children and adults written by the French author, St. Exupery has sustained me through life as well.

L”Essentiel est invisible pour les yeux. On ne voit bien  qu’avec le Cœur.

What is essential is invisible to the eyes. It can only be seen with the heart.

That is probably the most important message I conveyed to my students. I also encouraged them not go to college right after high school, but to travel and learn other languages in order to meet people from other countries, cultures and worlds. When a Haitian population moved into the neighborhood I had the opportunity to learn about yet another culture, another view on life, another look into struggles and the will to achieve. I even managed to learn some Creole, sometimes with a humorous twist, such as when I talked about the Buddha, only to be told that in Creole it was the part of the body you sit on. A life lesson indeed.

See Part 2 of My Life Report