Letters to Rose Read online

  Letters to Rose—A Holocaust Memoir with

  Letters of Impact and Inspiration from the Next Generation

  Copyright © 2019 by Rose Sherman Williams,

  Rebecca Ebner Hoag,

  and Robin L. Philbrick.

  All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the authors. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover and internal rose designed by Carey Jedow

  Print ISBN: 978-1-54396-334-2

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-54396-335-9

  Letters to Rose is dedicated to Holocaust survivors around the world who have shared their stories in hopes of preventing such atrocities from ever happening again. This memoir is also dedicated to educators who continue to teach the lessons of the Holocaust and to their students who learn from the experience and commit to being the voice of Holocaust victims in the future.

  “Come, take this giant leap with me

  Into the other world…the other place

  Where language fails and imagery defies,

  denies man’s consciousness…and dies

  upon the altar of insanity.”

  “For Yom Ha’ Shoah,”

  By Sonia Weitz

  Copyright©2018 by Facing History and Ourselves.

  Printed by Permission. www.facinghistory.org

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  Letter To Rose

  Paris, January 16, 1948

  Chapter One: My Beginnings

  Chapter Two: War Comes To Poland

  Chapter Three: The Ghetto, 1941

  Chapter Four: Working At The Avl Factory

  Chapter Five: Unfathomable Loss

  Chapter Six: The Nightmare Continues

  Chapter Seven: Barrack 72

  Chapter Eight: Garret Life In The Little Ghetto

  Chapter Nine: Return To Pionki

  Chapter Ten: Enter Elsie

  Chapter Eleven: Auschwitz, 1944

  Chapter Twelve: Hindenburg

  Chapter Thirteen: Death March To Gleiwitz

  Chapter Fourteen: Bergen-Belsen

  Chapter Fifteen: Liberation And Beyond

  Afterword

  Meet The Authors

  Endnotes

  Works Consulted

  Acknowledgments

  Topics And Questions For Discussion—

  FOREWORD

  As a Holocaust survivor, I feel an urgency, especially in today’s world, to continue to share a horrific personal story in hopes that such an abomination might never happen again. Whether talking to students or adults, I try to also convey a sense of hope, a message that with faith, perseverance, and the help of others, we can overcome even the most difficult obstacles in life. Over the last decade or more, I have told my tale to thousands. If even a few of those lives have been touched, my efforts will have been worth it.

  The first time I visited San Antonio’s Johnson High School (2015), I was absolutely overwhelmed. Over seven hundred students filled the auditorium. Teacher Robin Philbrick set the tone with a beautiful introduction. The JROTC cadets escorted me across the stage. Tears stung my eyes when I looked out and saw hundreds of teens on their feet applauding me before I spoke a word. But most touching was seeing tears in their eyes as they listened to my story of the many atrocities suffered in the concentration camps.

  After my talk, students lined up patiently to greet me on stage, take a picture, grab a hug….all but one. One young woman leapt onto the stage, ignoring the line, and threw her arms around me, sobbing. She told me how she related to my story as she herself had suffered abuse and deprivation. She had given up on herself and any hope of having a decent life. After hearing my story, she felt inspired, hopeful. She promised me she would pursue college and make something of herself. What could possibly be more rewarding to me than that!

  My connection to Robin and her students only grew stronger each year, culminating in students from the 2018 graduating class, along with a few students from previous years, wanting to collaborate on a book about my story and their responses in Letters to Rose. I cannot begin to describe how honored I felt. Hundreds of students have written me letters over the years, but these students wanted to do more: They not only wished to share their thoughts, feelings, and emotions in response to my story but also to share their voices and mine publicly. They have taken on the responsibility of carrying my story forward.

  Robin had a concept for the book, but she needed someone who knew my story. She asked Becky Hoag to co-author with her. Becky and I began bonding through our work at the Holocaust Memorial Museum of San Antonio in 2007. For a dozen or so years, we have grown together as friends. Now, I consider Becky family. I feel like we couldn’t be any closer if we were mother and daughter. My gratitude toward her for being my friend, family, and caretaker is indescribable. It’s almost impossible to articulate the feelings we have for one another. Only Becky, who knows me so well, would I entrust to tell my story. I am so grateful she agreed to the project.

  As survivors of the Holocaust, many of us will vocalize the same fear: If we are alive, showing our tattoos and telling our stories, and yet some deny the Holocaust ever happened, what will happen when we are gone? Will there be even more deniers? Will history inevitably repeat itself? My hope, my prayer, is that through efforts like this book, through the actions of youth in learning from and retelling the inhumanity of this dark time in history, our survivors’ voices will continue to be here long after we are gone.

  Rose Sherman Williams

  San Antonio, Texas, April 25, 2018

  Letter to Rose

  My Dear Rose,

  During the ten years that you shared your horrifying experience as a Holocaust survivor with us, I compiled a notebook with hundreds my students’ letters, many of which would come to be included in Letters to Rose. Their words were heartfelt, compelling and sincere. In many instances they could relate an element of your story to an experience of their own. As a teacher, I knew that meeting a Holocaust survivor would leave an indelible imprint on their lives and that they would be forever connected to you. The same can be said for me.

  But a one-hour speech barely touches the surface. Your memoir in Letters to Rose has enlightened us by answering many of the very questions expressed by my students in their letters.

  One story that truly touched us all was your reunion with your sister, Binne, and how finding her meant so much to you, how your reunion gave you reason to survive, to live. Many students wondered what your life was like before the Nazi invasion of Poland and the hostile takeover of your home town of Radom. They asked if you were you always close to your brothers and sister, or if there was any sibling rivalry as kids. What fond memories do you have of your childhood?

  Your description of the horrors of life in the ghetto and at Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen was chilling and left a lasting impression on us all. In fact, typically I would introduce my classes to you at the end of our study of the Holocaust. But in my final year of teaching, they met you in the middle of the unit, which made their study of the concentration camps more frightening and all too real as they pictured you, a young Rose, in every detail of our readings and every video clip. Again, your memoir actually answered their questions. They were in awe of your strength and courage, particularly during the times when you were completely alone. They wondered who reached out to you. Who did you inspire in their time of need? How did you fin
d the strength to go through each day and to curb the overwhelming fear you must have felt?

  Especially alarming for nearly every student was the mind-boggling knowledge that you were the same age as they when the Nazis changed your life forever. Given how young you were when you lost your parents, were there stories or lessons they taught you that helped you survive? Or was it too painful to think about them, as we read in Elie Wiesel’s All Rivers Run to the Sea, where he expresses his inability to reconcile the loss of his parents?

  You mentioned in your speech the joy of discovering that your older brother had also survived. How did you and Binne come to find him after the war? What happened to the three of you after liberation? In a sense, my students felt comforted that you were able to share your sadness and loss together. They took to heart your homework assignment to go home and tell their families that they love them, because as you said, we never know what will happen tomorrow.

  Finally, I recall the first time I told my classes that they would be the last generation to hear the personal account of a Holocaust survivor. I challenged them to become your voice to future generations. They have picked up the mantle by including their letters to you in this book, by promising to become your voice, and by sharing your story with their children and their children’s children. I know for certain they will speak for you and they will never forget you, Rose Sherman Williams. And neither shall I.

  With abiding love,

  Robin

  PARIS,

  JANUARY 16, 1948

  It is the beginning of winter. It is ice cold, even my thoughts are cold. They are flooding back and forth like the waves of an ocean. I must not lose this moment, and so I am looking for a pen and paper to put down my racing thoughts. I am thinking back to the time when I was a little girl, and I was listening intently to the words of my parents who told me the secret of my birth. I must record those times of innocence, moments to cherish, before I descend into the darkest period in my life, in the life of mankind, the Holocaust.

  Chapter One:

  My Beginnings

  A Rose Is Born

  On an otherwise peaceful, hot June night in Radom, Poland, 1927, my father ran through the streets, looking frantically for a doctor. After struggling through seven hours of difficult labor, my mother was giving birth to a long-awaited child. Repeatedly, my parents told the story that my mother, who had only one son during the first eight years of her marriage, had bitterly longed for a second child. She went from one rabbi to another, asking for their blessings so that she might conceive. At one point, she had resigned herself to thinking that she and my father might have sinned without knowing and her sterility was G-d’s punishment.

  One day a rabbi’s widow, our neighbor, came to see her and prophesied that she would get pregnant again. The neighbor asked that, should Mother give birth to a daughter, the child be given her name—Rose. My mother laughed at this, but, to her astonishment, the prophecy came true. The old woman died, and a short time after her death, my mother found herself pregnant again.

  And so I got the name Rose. Of course, I was a most beautiful baby in their eyes. They curled my hair in long locks and dressed me up just like a little doll. Once, on a Saturday, I wanted to have an ice cream, but my father, as a devout Jew, would not buy anything before the first stars had come out ending the Sabbath. So, he waited until nightfall and bought me the ice cream, a happy moment not to be long lived. Shortly after, I fell seriously ill with pneumonia, which ended in pleurisy and the removal of two ribs. Most of my first two years were spent in a hospital where I underwent two operations.

  During my illness, my mother again became pregnant, eventually giving birth to twin girls. One of the twins died right away, but the other survived, my sister Binne. Looking back, given the circumstances surrounding Binne’s birth, I can understand why my parents seemed to dote on her. Two years later, a new baby brother, Motek, arrived in our house.

  Despite illness, I have mostly happy childhood memories. Admittedly, my relationship with Jurek, my older brother, was easier than the one with Binne. I frequently quarreled with her. In later years, Binne and I became each other’s friend and confidante as well as sisters, but the early ones evidenced constant sibling rivalry and the burdens of my being the older girl. By the time I was six or seven years old, my mom had already taught me how to take care of my younger siblings. I was practically the nurse of the newcomer Motek.

  When I turned eight, Dad began to leave ten cents on the counter so that Binne and I could go to the movies while he took the boys to synagogue. On a rare Sunday, he might go with us to see a movie. My sister and I were so proud when our father took us somewhere. I looked up to him as if he were a king and frequently took his hand firmly in mine. To me, he was the only father in the whole world; there were no others like him. And I will never forget one motion picture I saw with him. Of course, the name has slipped from my memory, but the actors I recall well. It was a Jeanette McDonald and Nelson Eddy film. To this day, I can hear the film’s melody in my head.

  Lessons Learned…from Home and School

  I started school at seven years old. I loved school. I learned how to read and poured over any book I could lay my hands on. Binne was just the opposite; she could care less about her lessons. While I did not often get praised for my academic success, I did get pressured to help Binne a lot, so my parents must have thought me capable.

  The school year always went by pretty fast for me. I loved learning and was good at it! When fall came with its typical Polish rainstorms, nothing could squelch my excitement about returning to school. I started each year out proudly with a new complete, beautiful wardrobe—a cloak, a cap, new shoes and dresses. My mother had my sister’s and my clothes custom made. We called it “made to order.”

  One of my favorite school memories occurred when I was nine years old. That year our school collaborated with our parents on a scientific excursion to Wieliczka, a famous 13th C. salt mine outside of Krakow. My parents got an inquiry from school about whether they would permit me to be part of the party. In that case, they had to send ten zloty (equivalent to ten dollars!) for the fare a week beforehand. Although it seems strange, I have but a blurred remembrance of the actual to and fro of the trip. I can recall boarding the train, singing, carrying our baggage. But I try in vain to remember how we arrived and where we spent the night. Nevertheless, the visit to the salt mine has remained in my consciousness as some dazzling, surreal fairy tale all these years.

  A miner hauled four children at a time down to the mine in a kind of elevator. When we arrived at the bottom of the shaft, another man received us and made us stand in line. Then, a guide came and led us through the subterranean caves. The walls glittered like millions of diamonds in all colors of the rainbow. Nature had built a fairy-tale castle underground, a castle with halls, towers, shining and sparkling—a perfect wonderland. Figures of the king, the queen, and the retinue, all resplendent in their magnificence, dazzled our eyes with supernatural beauty. I was so impressed that I began to cry when we had to go up to the sober surface of the earth.

  On the trip back, all the children were so quiet, as if touched by a magic wand. We didn’t listen to the teacher’s words. Everyone was submerged in thoughts. We had seen hidden wonders of a mysterious world. When I got back home, something extraordinary happened. My mother, who never was very affectionate with us, hugged me and told me how much she had missed me. She asked me if I enjoyed my trip. This new exchange was so unexpected that I grabbed my mom and kissed her. What a beautiful moment to remember!

  How can I, after so many years, describe the joy, the love I felt for my parents? Mom opened my eyes to the beauty of life. She not only helped me in my studies, but she also told us stories of her younger days. She and Dad stressed being caring and understanding toward others, lessons that guided me throughout my life.

  Mom was also the disciplinarian in our house. At the age of
seven, my parents gave me a special stool to use so I could reach the sink. One day, Mom said, “Rose, I want you to wash the dishes.” My stool was ready for me, but I wasn’t ready for such menial labor.

  “What’s Florka (our servant) doing?”

  “I didn’t ask Florka to do the dishes. I asked you.” End of conversation and any thought of getting out of work!

  On the other hand, Dad found it difficult to be harsh. He was too soft-hearted. He told us to avoid even stepping on a worm because it was one of G-d’s creatures. He taught us lessons about kindness and honesty. He also stressed the value of money, taking us to the meter to show how every time we left the door open, we wasted energy and cost him money. Every click of the meter equaled a quarter.

  One of Father’s most memorable lessons about honesty had to do with a wealthy manufacturer who had no family. He had twenty-seven employees he considered family, but he had no one to inherit his factory. The owner decided he would test the honesty of his employees to see who deserved his trust and his wealth. He called them together one day and told them they he was giving each one a packet of seeds. Whoever could produce the most bountiful plants in six months would become his heir.

  Eager to be chosen, the employees used every means to become the winner. When the time came to show their efforts, the workers brought in all sorts of gorgeous blooming plants. Only one employee had nothing to show. He admitted that he tried watering, feeding, whatever he could do to make his seeds grow, but his efforts proved fruitless. He felt like he failed his boss and asked his wife what he should do.

  “Just tell him the truth,” his wife said. And so he did….

  “This man alone has been honest and earned my complete trust. You were all given the same worthless seeds. I am disappointed that so many chose deceit, but I’m honored to call this honest man my heir.”