For the unindoctrinated, allow me to explain that the Right
of Return is something all Jews, around the world, share. It is in answer to the existential crisis
born of anti-semitism and the aftermath of the Holocaust. It is the universal
right of any Jew, anywhere, to “return” to the State of Israel. We have the right
to go and instantly upon arrival, claim citizenship. I have it. My brothers and sisters have it.
My parents too. Despite the fact that Mom was not a Jew at all (quite the
contrary!)
Many of you don’t know this about me, being a naturalized
Israeli. I speak good, if rusty modern Hebrew. Read and write at probably a
first grade level at best, still, enough to make out a bit. I was 18 when we
left a very cushy life in the U.S. to claim our Right of Return. I remained
about 7 years. How all this came about
is not the story I plan to write today (another day perhaps).
I was not raised in the least small way as a Jew. In fact, I was
baptized in a Lutheran church at birth. We went to Sunday school. Learned all
our little Bible verses. Knew all the traditional hymns (still do). said The Lord’s Prayer. Did
the Christmas Pageant, Mary, Joseph, the baby Jesus in a Manger, Wise Men, Shepherds out standing in the field.
Holidays – Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter – were spent in the company of my mother’s
family mostly. Good, churchgoing Northern Baptists in Pittsburgh where they attended weekly prayer
meetings, Church services, sang in the choir. Today is not their story either.
Another time I suppose.
My Jewish upbringing consisted of two things: The very occasional
occurrence of a Bat or Bar Mitzvah of my distant cousins whom I scarcely knew. Secondly endless
repetitions of the soundtrack to Fiddler on the Roof blasting in the car on long trips. Each song –
every note, all the lyrics - burned into my everlasting memory. It is the only music
all seven of us could agree on during long drives – Ocean City each summer at
minimum. Happiest memories of my
childhood.
But about those holidays…
As a kid, you don’t really think much about it. But somehow,
in the deep recesses of my mind there were ephemeral shadows in the furthest corners of the
room. Mom’s family – grandpa, grandma, Uncles Richard and Bob, their wives and
kids, Aunt Peggy too - all present in the flesh. Great-grandmas Jones and Barker too when I was very small. All very much alive. But those shadows. Who
were they?
My Dad never spoke about his family. His mother, my Grandma
Gelbman, was not around much. My mother didn’t like having her around. I don’t
recall ever spending a night in her home. She lived in distant Miami. She was the subject of much hilarity to us. She had a thick Yiddish accent which we mocked.
She wore bright red nail polish and matching lipstick. She laughed a lot. My dad
had nothing very nice to say about her.
Dad never said anything at all about his family. Not even his father and sister. Nothing at all. He was only 5-6 when they arrived in New
York. I knew he had a sister. And that
she and his father both disappeared into the smoke and ashes of the Holocaust.
We had but one photograph of them, all four, Grandma, Dad's father, his sister
Rita and little Henry, just a toddler. It was a lovely studio portrait. Rita
with a giant bow in her hair, Grandma smiling as always, her hair in tight
little finger curls popular in the late 20’s and early thirties.
They were
strangers to me and no one ever spoke of them. I only knew Rita’s name and
nothing about their father.
I was obsessed with them. Am still. I read every book and memoir on the Holocaust that I could lay my hands on from the time I was able to read and choose books on my
own at the library. Somehow, I got the notion that Rita might have survived.
She was just an adolescent at the time, no more than 12 or 13. I was never able
to get an answer to the question of what Grandma was able to discover in the
aftermath of the war. No one talked about it.
It haunted me, these ghosts who lingered faintly around the
edges of our family holidays. Unknown. Unspoken.
When I was fourteen, curiosity got the better of me. I
secretly wrote to my Grandmother and asked her about them. In return, with no
explanation, no letter or any other clue, she sent me a large manila box. It
was filled with photos. Letters. Telegrams. Postcards. All from the
ghosts. I didn’t tell anyone (eventually
shared them with my younger brother Michael).
The letters and other documents were in German, Polish
and Yiddish. I could not read a word of it. By some strange stroke of luck, at
almost the same time I received that box, there was a story in the local newspaper about a Polish Merchant Marine who had fallen overboard from his freighter while coming up the Chesapeake. He landed in the local Annapolis hospital. A translator was found for him and
somehow I connected with her. She was able to translate all of the documents for
me. She wrote them out in longhand on loose leaf notebook paper. I poured over them
day after day. The ghosts had life breathed into them at last. They had names.
Rita's name confirmed. She printed in her own childlike hand in some of them. Most were
written by my great grandmother, Anna. My Dad’s maternal grandmother. My
grandfather’s name was Jakub. Called 'Kuba' for short. Jakub Rosenberg (I knew
the Rosenberg part). Grandma had a sister, Klara.
There were four siblings actually. My grandmother, then
called 'Fela' which became Phyllis in America (it is also my mother’s name).
Fela was the eldest. Next was her brother, Arthur, then the sister, Klara and
finally Josef. Josef was a half brother and younger than the rest. I knew Josef. He was my Uncle Joe. He’s called Juziu in many of the letters. But I knew him as Uncle Joe. A handsome, dashing
European man who lived in New York with my beloved Aunt Fran. They have two
children, Andrea and Marc. My only known cousins on that side of the family that I
had ever known. They are little older than I and my siblings. Uncle Joe passed
unexpectedly in 1969. I was just nine years old. But I remember him well.
Despite the shadowy specter of the others, Joe was real. He
survived the war in Europe. He has a remarkable story (as so many do). Mysteriously I have always known about Joe’s story. It was like learning
to swim or ride a bike or knowing how to read. I cannot remember a time when I did not know
how to do those things and I don’t recall not knowing Joe’s story. Curiously,
Joe told it to my mother, not my Dad. He
told her the story in some detail but I don't think all of it made it to us
kids. For all my mother’s failings, she could elicit things from people others
never heard. Except for her own kids, she had an acute ability to listen to
other's stories. And remember them. She always found Uncle Joe’s story
remarkable and related it to us from a very early age. She never cottoned to
most of the rest of the distant Jewish family – the “Cousin’s Club” as my New York
relatives called them. She especially never much liked Grandma (though it was
mom who cared for her in the end). But my Mom loved Joe and Fran and their
kids like no others. So did Dad. And so
too did all of us children because they
did. I’m not going to tell Joe’s story here. Again, one for another day.
I was in search of OUR story.
On and off over the years I would take a stab at uncovering
more of the story. I did not have much success. I was told everything was
destroyed during the war. I could find no trace of Rita, Jakub, Anna, Klara
or any of the rest of the large extended family.
But I kept at it. Like shred of tattered fabric I worried it time and again. I would find
some loose thread over the years and tug at it until it unravel a little more.
Finally, the miracle of Ancestry.com unlocked a swath of
sealed doors for me. I had little to begin with, but the story came out in
dribs and drabs. I had names. I guessed at dates of birth. The records began to
surface.
At the very end of his life my Dad suddenly recalled the name of the ship he and grandma sailed
over to New York on and even remembered that they sailed from Genoa. Out of nowhere. With that I was able to find the
ship and the passenger manifest with their names on it. That led to the rest of
the immigration story and unlocked a host of other resources. It was BIZARRE that he just spit it out one
day. I often wonder what else was locked in that traumatized
little boy's head. I begged him long ago
to try hypnosis but he would have none of it.
Hardly anyone knew that I'd been on this "quest" to
discover our family's story from a very early age. I was always fascinated with
Dad's origin. And mine. Probably because he never talked about it at all. He claimed to have no
memory of it. Incredible what trauma does to the mind to protect us from our
demons and ghosts.
I went back to the letters received from my grandmother all
those years ago. Mostly written by Anna (my grandmother's mother) telling us about all the others.
I continued to gather the facts as they slowly unraveled from these documents and records. I stored them like pebbles in a secret little sack. I've
compiled quite a lot of documentation, photos and various records to trace the
"facts" of our story. I think I have most of what is known of the
historical record. The narrative has been percolating for many, many years.
Only now am I weaving it all together. How I regret that I’d not spent the time
and effort gathering the oral history from both parents, Uncle Joe, Aunt Fran
and of course my Grandma Phyllis. Nothing to
be done about that now, they are all with the ghosts in the darkest corners of
the dining room. Together at last.
I've made a couple false starts - or hesitant ones
anyway – taking stabs at writing it all down. I have an outline written but I
have a feeling I will depart from that considerably. By necessity, I shall fill
the gaps with what I imagine to be the "dialogue" -- one that has
tripped through my head all these years. It needs to happen before my own mind
and memory begin to fade. So here am I, today, putting pixelated pen to paper.
My cousin, she of long ago New York fame, asked me recently to explain how my father and grandmother came to be Americans. She and I share a common
Grandmother, Anna, and we have periodically exchanged information about that
connection over the years.
Their story, the story of Phyllis and Henry, my grandmother and father,
are the jumping off point for mine.
Here are the begats: Phyllis Gelbman, as I knew her, was
born Fela Bloch in 1905. She married Jakub Rosenberg in 1929. Rita Rosenberg was born a
year later, and Henry, born Heinrich
Rosenberg or “Heinele” as he appears in the letters, was born in 1934. They lived
in a town called Bielsko-Biala, in southwest Poland, or Silesia (then a part of
the Austro-Hungarian empire). The borders shifted a lot in those day.
In Bielsko-Biala was a park, called “Zigeurnawald” which
translates to “Gypsy Wood.” On the edge
of the woodland park, there is a Beer Garden.
Filled with food, drink, music and life. The Bloch Family Restaurant. Owned by
Fela’s parents. The family all worked there. Fela, her sister Klara, Arthur and
Joe. I have photos of tiny Heinele perched on his mother’s knee at an outdoor table with Kuba, a bottle on the
table and toddler Rita peeking over the tables edge. There are musicians nearby
– a guitar and standing double bass easily visible. Waiters in waistcoats and tails with white
aprons around their middles.
Even in faded grayscale, It is full of life. It is the
quintessential European tableau.
How then, did they arrive here? How does one explain how Fela
and Heinele alone, of all of them, sailed to America, in the middle of a raging
war, from Genoa, Italy?
Why Fela and Heinele but not Rita and Jakub?
Enter the Nazis. The photo of the restaurant is from about 1936. In
1939 the Germans stormed across the Polish border. The Blochs. The Rosenbergs.
The Frankels and the Hupperts all fled by train eastward, into what is today L’viv
Ukraine, then it was L’vov, in Soviet occupied Poland.
From there, the Rosenbergs continued on to Moscow. And it is there that
a bizarre turn of fate emerges. Fela
presents herself at the U.S. Embassy claiming to be a U.S. Citizen. And so she
is.
A new set of threads begins to unravel. It is the Bloch Family Restaurant.
Established sometime around 1880. By
grant to Baruch Bernard Cohen Bloch. His son, also Bernard, bears three
children, Jakub, Arnold and Selma all of whom come into a controlling
interest in restaurant. Arnold sails off to seek his
fortune in America. Selma disappears into the shadows but Jakub remains with
his parents in the beer garden on the edge of the Gypsy Wood.
This part, I must imagine. I imagine that a young Anna, then
Anna Kurzowa, works at the Restaurant and there she meets Jakub, the young and
handsome son of the owner. Jakub has come back from his military service to the
Emperor Franz Joseph. I have a photo of a young Jakub Bloch in a Hessian
military uniform.
I imagine an torrid, illicit affair as Papa and Mama Bloch would never bless a marriage with the hired help. Jakub, determined to
forge a future with Anna, sails off to join his brother Arnold, now established
in Bridgeport, Connecticut in the New World.
It is 1903. Jakub Bloch arrives in the port of Baltimore.
According to the passenger manifest, on the line below his name is Anna Kurz. They
were presumably considering immigration
but arrived as tourists. I do not believe Anna and Jakub were married when they arrived in Baltimore. I have imagined that mama and papa Bloch back in Zigeurnawald objected to their marriage and so they ran away together to America. Jakub's brother, Arnold Bloch, had been in the
U.S. for quite some time. Together, Arnold and Jakub opened a bicycle repair
shop and may have had other business ventures as well. Fela, Jakub and Anna’s
firstborn, is born in Bridgeport in 1905 while they were still on tourist
visas even after arriving two years earlier. Baby Arthur arrives in 1907 – Jakub and Anna still
here on tourist visas. Fela and Arthur were "anchor babies." Both born in Bridgeport. And American citizens.
Anna and Jakub stayed in Connecticut until 1908
or 09 at which time they set sail back to Europe. Both their young American children in tow. Either
onboard the ship or shortly after arriving, Jakub died of influenza. He's
buried in the Jewish cemetery in Zigeurnawald. I am almost certain that Anna
was pregnant with Klara on board that ship given her date of birth and Jakub's
date of death. Klara would never have known her father which explains why she
was, much later, so close to Joe (her
half brother) and HIS father Abraham Huppert. It must have been quite a nauseating voyage
for both Anna and Jakub. He down with
flu and she pregnant.
When Jakub died, Anna retained a controling interest in his share of the restaurant.
Arnold, still in America and had no interest in it. I'm not sure how things
played out with the sister, Selma, still shrouded in a mystery I shall continue to try
to solve.
And so Anna came to run The Bloch Family Restaurant.
Fela, Klara, andArthur all help her and it is very popular. There are picture
postcards of it and it is something of a tourist destination. Anna eventually meets and marries a frequent
guest, Abraham Huppert. With Abraham, she has one son, my Uncle Joe. In 1929, Arthur departs for America never to return. Perhaps
he saw the way the winds were blowing in neighboring Germany? Or maybe the
Depression made America seem like a better opportunity? I’m told by Arthur’s
son, that he left to avoid military duty under the Austrian government.
Much later, Fela,
Arthur and Klara inherited the beer garden through Anna, as surviving spouse of Jakub Bloch. or so the
determination was made by the U.S. State Department following World War II. After the war, Fela, Arthur and Joe sought to regain the property. The State
Department, examining their claim which is supported by documents (Wills, mortgage etc.) which together established Fela, Arthur and Klara as rightful heirs. I still have not retrieved those yellowing
records from the State Dept. archive (in Prince Georges County, Maryland) but
I have State's decision which cite to the Wills and a mortgage on the property.
Henry, my father, or “Heinele” as he was known, was born in Poland in 1934. He never set foot
outside Poland until they fled from the Nazi's in 1939. His U.S. citizenship is
derived through Fela’s – who - because she was born here - is automatically a citizen. She
had to prove it in Moscow, and I have the State Department letter confirming that
she did. Heinele – my Dad - benefited from a change in U.S. immigration law in 1934 - the
year dad was born. That change made it possible for Fela, a native born
citizen, to claim U.S. citizenship for
him as a birthright. Jakub Rosenberg, my grandfather, had no such luck. Dad's
older sister, Rita also had no claim to
a visa or passport because she was born in 1930 - BEFORE the law changed that
saved both Dad and Grandma's lives.
With fresh new passports Fela and Heinrich, leave Rita and
Jakub in Moscow and wend their way through war-torn Europe. They eventually land in Genoa, Italy. From there
they sailed for New York on a ship called "Rex”. The passenger manifest
lists them together: Phyllis and Heinrich Rosenberg. She has already anglicized
her name. Jakub Rosenberg, having no visa and no claim of
citizenship of any kind, remained behind in the USSR. From there he returned to
Lvov under the Soviets. That's where Joe, Klara and Anna eventually found themselves under the Germans in the Jewish ghetto at Lvov. There they remain, in my imagination, with the others -
Klara and Gundi (her husband) together with their two small children, my grandmother, Anna, and many others. All remained in Lvov. Never
to be seen again. Except Joe.
It was in the forests near Lvov that my Uncle Joe – “Juziu” - joined up with the Russians and Polish
resistance. I believe they may have been Ukrainians, in that part
of the USSR, not Russians. We have photos of Joe, on horseback and standing
with a Russian general. It is said he cared for the horse and maintained the
cars. That’s a story for my cousins,
Andrea and Marc to tell.
Anna’s letters – and some recovered from Joe’s things much
later (including some original poetry) - tell us where they are and what they
are doing. Some are written in a type of code. Some were written in Ladino. Ladino, like
Yiddish, uses Hebrew characters but is closer to Spanish. (Yiddish is Hebrew
characters but closely related to German). The Ladino language correspondence use the latin alphabet. It took us forever to figure that out. Once translated, it is
clear that they were speaking in a code and making efforts to escape. There are
frequent references to going on a trip. By motorcycle and how it is repeatedly
cancelled. We are guessing, but believe they were trying to get the U.S. family
members to help them get out.
Rita’s notes
to her mother are in a childlike block print. She speaks Russian now as well. She is going to school and doing well. Some of the later envelopes and postcards bear swastika stamps from
the Nazi censors. In 1942, they stop dead. Never to be heard from again.
In all these years, I
have never found a single shred of information on Jakub Rosenberg, a very
common name. I have uncovered no DNA link to connect me to any survivors of the
Rosenberg family. Not one single surviving relative. My grandfather, had no Right of Return. He vanished.
Grandma was born in Connecticut, a U.S. Citizen. Dad, born
in Bielsko-Biala, is a U.S. citizen derived through her. They claimed their Right of Return and lived, giving life to me.
There is another curious twist.
Arnold Bloch, my grandmother’s uncle, still over in Bridgeport,
married Bertha.... wait for it... GELBMAN. Bertha's much young brother was a
man named. J. Louis Gelbman. Louie, as he was known, would be my
grandmother’s Uncle by marriage. She would have known him as a very small
child. Many years later, when my
grandmother escaped to the U.S., after the war and after all hope was lost that Jakub, Rita or any of the others would have survived, Louie and Phyllis would
reconnect. They married one another in 1948. Louie became Dad's
step-father. They were also
somehow cousins though I don’t recall how precisely. Louie, years before, had a daughter by his first wife. His daughter was named Doris
Gelbman. Yes, from whom I get my name. Doris would later marry ... you won't believe it, Stanley BLOCH
-- Arnold and Bertha's son, Also first cousins.
It's a wonder we're not all cross eyed. Thankfully none of
the cousins bore children together.
I found it all terribly romantic. Especially Louie marrying my
grandma all those years later. They were, apparently a true love match, something even my Dad recognized. Louie ultimately did adopt Dad and thus Gelbman is our
legal name, not Rosenberg. I have the adoption papers among my stash of documents. Louie was
very, very good to both Dad and Grandma. He died shortly after I was born.
A Right of Return accounts for my existence. I have no
existential crisis. Half of my DNA
places me firmly in Eastern Europe for many, many generations. Not a single solitary strand places me anywhere in the Middle East. Yet, here I am, owner of a
passport granted by The Right of Return to a country to which I had zero
connection. Not religiously. Not culturally. Not historically. Not genetically.
The tattered fabric, the loose threads, the strands of DNA cross all boundaries. I exist independently of any of those influences.
I exist. Not an ephemeral shadow lurking as a faded memory in someone’s dining
room.
POSTSCRIPT: After writing this, in conversation with my cousin, we have decided that it is long past time that WE should return to the old family homestead. We are making plans to go to Zigeurnawald and the Bloch Family Restaurant - which still stands appears to still operate as a restaurant. We will go in April. I will keep you posted.
