Holocaust poetry, living memories “There’s
a book, just published, of interviews with former Nazi soldiers,” said Dr. John
Guzlowski, our guest speaker. John mentioned that the soldiers had been asked
why they were willing to kill indiscriminately, why they followed brutal
commands. Although I wanted to read the book, I wasn’t sure I would believe a
single word in it.
What I did trust was John’s poetry about what his parents
had endured as Polish Catholic prisoners in Nazi German work camps. “My Dad
weighed seventy-five pounds when he was liberated. Do any of you remember when
you weighed only that much?” he asked my class.
So softly spoken, John caused all of us to feel personally
involved with the tragic experiences his parents had survived. Too many of his
parents’ closest relatives and friends had been smashed or raped or viciously
murdered while his parents were present. John’s father had lost the sight of an
eye to the butt of a Nazi’s gun. As John read poems from his painfully
brilliant collection, Lightning and Ashes, a mournful but appreciative pallor
touched all of us.
Remarks about why the Holocaust atrocities happened were
followed by details about the horrors survivors could not escape. “My Dad had
such nightmares. He would scream in his sleep. On his death bed, he shouted
fearfully; he thought Nazi doctors were in his room.”
Each poem was picture perfect and was absolutely
heartbreaking. Every story John told reminded us that the Nazis had placed no
value on their human conscripts. “Estimates are that 12,000,000 to 20,000,000
people, from Europe to Africa, had been captured. My Dad,” John said quietly,
“saw his first black person, a fellow prisoner in the camps.” No one had
escaped the reach of the Nazi collectors.
“The prisoners lived on less than 600 calories a day, yet
they worked hard labor twelve to fourteen hours each day.” Such gruesome facts
were followed by a story about John’s mother who was forced to harvest beets
from frozen ground. “With her hands,” he told us, “and with no warm clothes.”
She may not have had shoes.
For years, his mother wouldn’t talk about what had happened
to her to John or his sister. “We were normal kids in a crazy house. It was
just like the others in our neighborhood. Most who lived there were Polish
Holocaust survivors.” He said that his father came home drunk “three or four
times a week.” Not until years later, when he finally received help from a
psychologist, was his father able to stop drinking.
“Dad never hesitated to talk about what happened. Mom kept
quiet until Dad died. Then she told me to write down her stories. Even so, some
of the worst, she never revealed.”
John read another poem about his dilemma about what he
should or shouldn’t tell his children. “When I was a child, I know that my
mother and Dad had different answers. Our house was insane. My sister married
at eighteen to get away. She never wanted to hear the tragic stories. I wrote a
poem about her, a poem she told me never to publish. She didn’t want to read
it. I didn’t put it in my first collection, but I added it to my second one.
And I sent her a copy.”
“How did she respond?” I asked. Everyone in the room was
eager to hear John’s answer.
“She didn’t,” he said.
“What about your daughter?” I asked John. She teaches
English at our public high school. “How does she feel about your poetry and
your readings?”
He paused, then answered in a way that made us think she
kept a safe distance from that part of John’s past.
I watched John, a man I’d known for years, as he tried to
answer that query. That’s when I wondered about the impact of the Holocaust on
third and fourth generation family members.
“Would your daughter speak to us?” I asked, gesturing to my
students.
All eyes turned to John. “She might, if I’m not here,” he
said. “I’ll ask her.”
I checked the time. To my surprise, more than two hours had
passed. I dismissed my class, although many lingered. One student, a young
Polish immigrant, spoke privately with John. Admittedly, I was curious about
their conversation.
And I wondered whether John would be curious about what his
daughter might tell our class about being the grandchild of Holocaust
survivors. “Do you want to meet her?” I directed that question to my students.
They responded with an instant, “Yes!”
Later in the day, John’s daughter e-mailed me that she would
visit us. Both she and I understood that her father wouldn’t appear with her. We
agreed with John on that condition.
My students left the room; they seemed subdued. I sensed
that many of them were trying to imagine what Friday’s class would bring.
So was I.
B. Koplen 10/21/12
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