It was only after my parents died that I learned more about their horrifying past
My story begins 65 years ago, when I was a child growing up in Brooklyn. But truthfully, it began long before that, in the horrors of World War II in Poland.
When my parents married, they lived in Zduńska Wola, a Polish town not far from Lodz. In September 1939, German troops invaded the town, and over the next few months, the Jewish residents were herded into a ghetto. Somehow, my parents survived the war, but virtually none of their relatives did. I was born upon my parents’ arrival in the United States, a first-generation American — and a child of survivors.
I was raised in Brooklyn along with my younger sister, Malkie. Our home was small and quiet. Daddy and Mommy never spoke to us about the war or about the lives they led before it.
As a child, I was able to piece together a few small details about my roots. I knew my birthday, and I knew my parents had been in the States for two months by the time I was born, so I figured out when they had emigrated from Poland. But my parents were determined to leave their past behind, and it remained a mystery.
Create a free account to keep reading.
