The Next Generation

The Next Generation: Reflections of a Holocaust Grandchild

August 3, 1986

I am alone in the forest and I am running, running. I can hear the sharp whistle of a train and even though I do not turn around, I know it is very close. I am barefoot and it is frigid, and I am wearing a striped tunic that is frayed at the edges. There are sharp sticks poking out of the snow, and the bare trees around me have menacing faces on their trunks. Their branches scratch my face. The train emits a sharp whistle, and as it fades, I begin to hear barking. I run faster but the barking sounds grow louder and louder, and suddenly there is a dog, all sharp teeth and dripping fangs, snapping at my heels. I fall, and when I look up the dog has transformed into a soldier, his green-gray uniform sharp against the snow. He growls at me, the sound of a beast, and aims his gun at my head….

And I wake up, breathless and afraid, mistaking the silhouette of the tree outside my window for that of a soldier.

I’m a grandchild of the Holocaust. Growing up, my nightmares were punctuated with soldiers and barking dogs and striped uniforms. It wasn’t a matter of direct conversation; I was privy to very few details of my grandparents’ war experiences. It was about the invisible wounds, the way my parents treaded carefully around their parents, the solemn black-and-white photos of relatives who had perished in ways we couldn’t discuss.

When I was small my father constantly pointed out how lucky I was to have grandparents, uncles, aunts. I appreciated the wisdom of his words, but at the same time, I looked around and saw that everyone had grandparents. Everyone had uncles and aunts and cousins. It wasn’t that big a deal.

Listening to my father, however, I realized something: There was a difference between my family and the “All-American” families we knew who had grandparents who spoke fluent English with no trace of an accent. My siblings and I were given the names of the grandparents, uncles, and aunts that my father had been deprived of. We grew up relatively carefree, but there was a backdrop of solemnity to our family gatherings. Often talk around the table would include small comments about “The War,” the mention of people and places I’d never heard of.

It was a life of contrasts, the childhood of a Holocaust grandchild, namely my spoiled and carefree existence contrasting sharply with the ashes and shadows of the past.

Growing up, it is fair to say I had everything: shelves of dolls and jewelry, two sets of grandparents….and the invisible scars passed down to me by the war that preceded my birth.

September 26, 1988

I use my fork to push my peas around my plate to make it look like I ate them. There are three tuna patties next to them. I hate tuna patties, but I can’t tell my mother that. Sure enough, she peers at my plate as she approaches the dinner table. I quickly take a large spoonful of mashed potatoes – see I am eating, Mom – and pick up a tuna patty. There is no way I will be able to finish this, my worst choice of dinner. But there is no avoiding it: I will be prodded and cajoled until I rise from my seat in protest, and whatever remains on my plate will join the carefully wrapped food in the refrigerator, up for the offering. After all, we can’t waste food: Do you know what Zaidy would have given to eat a dinner like this when he was a boy?

In 2007 Israel’s Ruppin Academic Center conducted a study to examine the possibility of a potential link between the eating disorders of third generation females and the eating problems of their second generation mothers. Another study, this time conducted in 2011 by Haifa University scholars on second generation survivors and their teenage children, found no extreme behavioral problems among the third generation. They did, however, exhibit indirect signs of post-trauma. Survival concerns, such as hoarding food and fear of harm; communication problems; and an overt tendency to please their parents were among the symptoms outlined in the study’s findings.

That same year, clinical psychologist Perella Perlstein, then a graduate student at Hofstra University, conducted a study of her own, gauging symptoms of Holocaust-related trauma in three groups: one of non-Jews; one of religious Jews, not descendent from survivors; and one of religious grandchildren of survivors. Her study’s outcome was interesting. She concluded that while there were no symptoms of secondary trauma in the group of non-Jews, there were elevated levels of trauma characteristics among the two Orthodox groups – and those levels were equal among grandchildren of survivors and non-survivors.

There have been numerous studies conducted on the grandchildren of survivors, but it is Perlstein’s study that resonates most strongly with me. Her results suggest that the Holocaust is embedded in the collective psyche of our nation, specifically in our religious demographic.

November 16, 1993

On our history test this week, my class had to write essays about whether we believe the American system of checks and balances is infallible, or if it is theoretically possible for a totalitarian dictatorship to gain power. You see, when the Framers wrote the constitution, they decided that the best protection against tyranny they could offer this country was to divide its control among our three branches of government. We learned all about the system, the power of veto, the ability to impeach – and it is a very good and carefully designed system. So I’m pretty sure I was in the minority when I wrote that I believe the system is far from flawless. In fact, I wrote, it would be pretty easy to systematically dissolve. My argument included a realistic outline of the rise of a hypothetical dictator, one who could easily create a tyranny in this country. My essay was persuasive and well defined. Of course it was: I’ve been pondering the possibility for years.

After reading up about Perlstein’s study, I give her a call. She begins our conversation by providing me with a bit of background. In 2006, she tells me, Susan Kassai and Robert Motta conducted a well-publicized study on the possibility of secondary trauma in the third generation of survivors. Although they did not find evidence of any significant differences between Jewish and non-Jewish control groups, Perlstein says, their subjects did not include Orthodox Jews. This knowledge promoted Perlstein to conduct her own investigation, this time with the specific inclusion of Chareidi Jews. Indeed, although she utilized Motta’s own secondary trauma scale, her findings pointed conclusively to significant disparity between Chareidim and their gentile counterparts.

Perlstein tells me that she herself is the grandchild of Holocaust survivors. She points out that while the studies conducted focused on clinical signs of secondary PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), it is likely, even probable, that less obvious signs are present in the third generation.

“So the farther away you move from the trauma, the more watered down the symptoms will be?” I ask.

She says yes. Instead of textbook signs of trauma, symptoms will include subtler effects that may not be evident in clinical testing. We discuss some shared experiences as grandchildren of survivors that highlight this, such as our own aversions to the disposing of food.

She explains many of the technicalities of her study, and concludes by saying that her findings have led her to believe that for the third generation of survivors, the Holocaust’s impact has been more about an affected worldview than blatant PTSD.

Perhaps I should have shown her my tenth grade essay about checks and balances.

July 17, 1994

Tomorrow is Tishah B’Av, the Jewish day of mourning. At night we will sit on the ground and recite Kinos; we will mourn the destruction of the holy Bais Hamikdash, and cry over our indefinitely long Galus. In Shiur (a.k.a. “Shay-ur”) today our counselor said that sometimes it is hard to understand what it is that we are mourning. After all, the Bais Hamikdash was destroyed thousands of years ago. But I know what we’re mourning. Tomorrow, when I finish saying the Kinos from my transliterated book, I will crack open the spines of the Holocaust memoirs that line the shelves of our study. I will look at pictures of human skeletons. I will pore over images of mass graves, of yellow stars, of things I do not allow myself to see any other day of the year. I will ply my father for stories of my grandparents’ experiences, and he will tell me them, without the usual withholding of detail. I will see and listen and I will touch the buried grief. I will mark this day of tragedy by remembering this most recent in the long line of atrocities that have been thrust upon our nation since the Bais Hamikdash went up in flames. My counselor wasn’t really taking to me; I know what we’re mourning.

Part of being a Holocaust grandchild is knowing you’re responsible for bearing the proverbial torch, for teaching and remembering what must not be forgotten. Each segment of footage, each black and white photo is emblazoned in your mind forever. Someday we’ll tell our children: This is what happened to our grandparents. This is what happened to their parents. Here are the pictures; this is their story.

At the same time, especially when you have a close relationship with your grandparents, when they are possibly the dearest and most fragile people you know, every morsel of horrific information is like a dagger to the heart. You know you have to look; but you can’t. You want to listen; but you just can’t bear it.

My way of coping with the disunion of needing to know but not being able to tolerate any more detail is to shelve that knowledge and pain for our designated day of mourning, Tisha B’Av. We are supposed to cry on that day, and I do. We are supposed to mourn, and I do. I research all the details, the names and places I can’t bear to ask my grandparents about, and I store them in my memory – for the future.

And even more than that – I connect that knowledge and pain to the larger scheme of our nation’s exile, the mourning that span thousands of years, and our collective yearning for the ultimate redemption.

March 10, 1999

She’s so tiny, our new daughter, with a shock of black hair. I can’t stop looking at her, can’t stop breathing in that new baby scent – the scent of a miracle. We left her gender a surprise, but secretly I had been sure that I was carrying a boy; I hadn’t even thought about names for a girl. She certainly is a surprise, and now we have to choose a name quickly. Other new mothers might consider names that sound beautiful, or that have special meaning, but for me these factors take a backseat to something much larger: This is my chance to create a link to those who’d been lost, to offer my grandparents a small form of consolation by means of a new generation. I’m not yet sure exactly who she’ll be named for, but my daughter’s name will be selected from the long list my father keeps in the back of his Siddur, the one that lists all the relatives murdered during The War.

When you know this much about the Holocaust, each child born is an act of faith. An act of revenge. An act of triumph. The birth of a child is always miraculous and magical, but for a grandchild of survivors those factors resonate more deeply. Look what you have now, we show our grandparents. We hand them our babies, and they gaze down at their tiny miracles with smiles of pride, and coo gently at them with voices of victory. We have provided them with a link to the future. Each child, to us, is a part of a greater picture.

I’m no scholar, but I don’t feel the need to delve into symptoms of post-trauma. I think it’s more about the larger question: What are we left with, nearly seventy years after the Holocaust? With what lessons have we, the grandchildren, as well as our entire generation, emerged? How have they impacted us as a nation?

They say history teaches. In the case of the Holocaust, I believe that the knowledge we have is meant to give us perspective, to remind us of who we are and what we hold dear. The Meshech Chachmah, in his commentary on the Tochacha in Parshas Vayikra, famously warned of the dangers of forgetting our origins. Years prior to the start of the Holocaust, he spoke of those who think that “Berlin is Yerushalayim,” cautioning that this belief would lead to their destruction. And now, decades after the Holocaust, his words ring true to those of us who descend from survivors or are intricately connected to its history.

We may not bear concrete scars, nor direct signs of trauma, but these are the lessons culled and highlighted at the birth of each child, during each major life event.

I am a grandchild of the Holocaust. As a child I had nightmares about Nazis. As an adult I am loathe to throw out food. My children bear the names of those who were lost. And more importantly: I know where I come from – and who I am.

November 15, 2012

I begin my day by perusing a live blog to read about the latest developments in the mission that was named just yesterday: Operation Amud Anan. Sirens in Ashdod….Sirens in Kiryat Malachi….Two rocket victims in critical condition in Rechovot. I read until I can read no more, and as I reach for my Siddur I remember: It is Rosh Chodesh, the first day of a new month. I want to say Eichah; instead I must say Hallel.

An elderly survivor once described a Seder she’d conducted beside her husbands hospital bed. He was not quite conscious of her efforts at the time, but it didn’t matter; it was Pesach, and so they were celebrating freedom. You see, she said, Pesach brings to mind images of sparkling crystal, of silver goblets, of a white-bearded Zaideh at the head of the table. That is not Pesach. Pesach is praising G-d and remembering our exodus even when there are German soldiers in your kitchen, as there were in her home on the Seder night of 1943. Pesach is listening to the foreign song of the other orphans who have been placed with you, as she did the year she was finally allowed entry into what would soon be Israel.

And now, when that same land is under attack, and the media cries foul as it attempts to defend itself, I feel as though the rockets are aimed at me. I want to cry. But it is Rosh Chodesh. Today I recite Hallel. Today I leave the laundry untouched, in a messy heap near the machine. Today I buy treats for the children and remind them to say Yaaleh V’yavo when they finish their dinner. Today I open my Siddur, and recite words of praise, surrounded by a pillar of clouds.

I am a grandchild of the Holocaust, but I am also a part of a larger scheme. My role is to remember the past and imbibe its lessons – and to pass them on to the generation that will follow. I am branded by scars, but also by the singular, unwavering faith that allowed my grandparents to survive, despite the odds. I am one generation farther from the horror, and by virtue of my distance, there is perspective along with the pain.

.