'Carry the Light' Excerpt: One Demon at a Time

Editor's Note: For the first time in the history of the San Mateo County Fair, a 300-page anthology has been published that includes more than 100 stories, poems and essays from writers who submitted award-winning work for the fair's literary contest. The idea was the brainchild of Bardi Rosman Koodrin, a San Bruno resident who runs the fair's literary contest, and the anthology, titled "Carry the Light," features work from many Peninsula writers.

Sometimes one is faced with her worst fears coming at her suddenly, without time to prepare. What she has avoided for so many years may now be her opportunity to free herself from the silent burden she has borne and prepare her to go forward to face a richer life.

From p. 212, "One Demon at a Time"

Facing my demons is not something I voluntarily contemplate doing, yet here I was, staring down the cruelest acts of man during the era of my birth, acts so vile, many today doubt they ever happened.

Growing up in a household witnessing residual pain, I heard my parents speak only hesitatingly about the Holocaust in which they both lost family, property, and possessions and were forced to flee for their survival.  I asked very few questions, sensing the pain they brought to any conversation, and they shared not much at all.  I learned that it was a subject to be avoided, not to be breached, and only to be discussed in whispers.  This started a life-long pattern for me.  I avoided literature about the Holocaust, films that chronicled it, documentaries that claimed to shed light on it, and generally any reference to the events of that time.  This is how I lived, protecting myself from the psychological damage I was certain would follow if I allowed myself to dwell on it, like a rape victim being forced to relive the experience.  I tried hard to keep the past in its place and not see myself and my family as victims.  This plan didn’t succeed one hundred percent of the time.  My ears were subconsciously attuned to any mention of it, and my eyes were instantly drawn to anything in print that referenced it.  Total avoidance was not possible, especially with a multitude of hate crimes continuing to spread in this country.

In this context, I couldn’t believe what I heard myself say to Fred Rosenbaum, the renowned historian who was an expert in Holocaust studies, when he asked me to translate for him certain pages from Yiddish to English from the Yizkor Book (Book of Remembrance) citizens of Zhetel, a small town in Poland, had written about their almost untellable tales of suffering at the hands of the Nazis in the early 40s.

“I shall try,” I responded, not sure I truly could undertake this.

So much respect did I have for Fred, who was a lecturer on our trip to South America, that I secretly felt honored to even be considered by him.  If he thought I could do this, maybe I could.  My knowledge of Yiddish was not extensive or highly advanced, but I was confident that with the help of expert scholars I knew, I could squeeze out the gist of any essay or entry.  What worried me was if I wanted to uncover that gist, own it, feel it, grapple with it, acknowledge it, and then choose appropriate words in English to do justice to the chronicles.  It was too late to back out.  I had already told him I would try.

Fred soon sent me a website link that led me to chronicles by dates to little cities and towns of Poland.  They were written in old Yiddish of earlier times and used words unfamiliar to me.  There were photographs and a few graphics meticulously presented with documentation and labels.  I came across political and military vocabulary that I struggled to make sense of.  Many times I found myself buried in my Yiddish-English dictionary, trying to recall the alphabetical order of the Yiddish words in order to find them.  I located an iPhone application that allowed me to place the Hebrew alphabet (which shares consonants with Yiddish) on my phone and find  definitions.  This app wasn’t too successful because many of the words used were not in its database.

* * * * * 

Piecing together a phrase here, a word there, a reference to another idea here, I hobbled together a narrative of sorts.  Soon I started recognizing names that kept reappearing, names of townspeople and names of streets.

The subtitles of each section hinted at how much I should brace myself for the coming narrative.  They ranged from Under the German Yoke, A Stormy Sea, Fresh Decrees, and Trouble to Ghetto, The First 120 Victims, and The First Slaughter.  Each title appeared bleaker than the last one.

The work so was intense that I had to allow myself a break every twenty minutes.  After the break, I would sigh, take a deep breath, and wish for a less horrific passage to confront.

The brutality I read about, along with some acts of heroism by defenseless Jews, moved me to tears.  I could understand why victims couldn’t speak about their indescribable horrors.

Ghettos were established in Zhetel, and no Jew dreamt of venturing out onto street beyond the ghetto.  Every day new decrees were issued for the ghetto residents.  One day, they were ordered to bring all their valuables, money, silver, copper, and any other metals to the center of town in the morning and hand them over to the Germans.  On November 28, 1941, the Jews of the ghetto lined up to deliver their possessions.  As Liba Ghertzovski got to the front of the line with her valuables, the Germans insisted she had hidden two gold rings in her pocket, led her out on the street for all to see, and shot her eyes out.

In 1942, 1,000 Jews were taken from the ghetto and brought to the forest where graves had been readied for them.  They were told to undress, thrown into the graves, and buried alive. 

* * * * *

Young sisters and brothers who didn’t come home from running an errand never returned or were soon found dead.

Many neighbors of Jews reported them to the German army on trumped up accusations.  Field commanders would show up at the home of the accused and shoot everyone dead.  Many families learned to hide in the cellar, attic, or garden whenever they heard a car approaching.  They would lie motionless, barely breathing while their house was ransacked, in hopes that would not be found.

Stories of this sort permeated my translations, and when I was done, I too sat motionless, overcome by unspeakable depression and angst.

Although it is nothing compared to the tribulations and suffering of the Zhetl Jewish people, I took pride in my own survival while translating horrific accounts of daily life there.  I felt a connection with some of the residents I read about and the streets on which they walked.

Excerpted from "Carry the Light" with the permission of Sand Hill Review Press, the publisher. The book is available for purchase for $12 on Amazon.com.

Evie Groch's opinion pieces and other articles have been published in the San Francisco Chronicle, Contra Costa Times and the El Cerrito Journal. She writes a column for El Cerrito Patch on education and has had her travelogues published online with Grand Circle Travel. Her poetry, short stories and memoirs have appeared in various venues. To find out more about Evie's story, "One Demon at a Time," email her at egroch@comcast.net.

To see all of the excerpts published on San Bruno Patch, visit the "Carry the Light" anthology topic page.