The night my family was torn apart, and how their town honoured them

When my two sisters and I went to Spisska Stara Ves, our late mother Mira’s hometown in Slovakia, last August, it was exactly what we imagined: an idyllic town set against the backdrop of the Tatras mountains, just as she described it. Anchored by a 14th-century Gothic church, a main road is dotted with modest houses, a few restaurants, a few grocery stores, all tiny against the dramatic green landscape.

My sister Jeannette had a moment of awareness, as if the place itself was engraved in her DNA. “No wonder I love living in the country,” he said, making the connection between this small outpost and his semi-rural home in Melbourne at an address that Mira simply calls “no-bullshit.”

But we weren’t there on a picturesque summer holiday. Instead, we came together with our cousins ​​from three corners of the world to erect memorial stones in memory of our grandparents and our parents, who were their children. Five of this family of seven were captured by the Nazis. Of these five, only my mother, Mira Blumenstock, returned.

Although much of Spisska Stara Ves has remained unchanged since then, the Blumenstock family home is no longer standing. In its place is the Kulturny Dom, the municipality’s cultural center with its own library and impressive auditorium. When you look at this place, flanked by bright flower beds and a grassy town square, you’ll never know what’s there. That’s why we were laying the stones.

It was at this point, late at night on September 3, 1944, that there was a loud knock on Mira’s front door. “Partisans!” a voice shouted. But it wasn’t him. The Nazis were tipped off that eight Jewish families from the pre-war Jewish community of 300 were staying in this small settlement. Among those already deported was my 26-year-old newlywed aunt Olga, who was never to be seen again.

Tonight, when the Nazis ambushed their house, my grandfather Dolfie jumped out of the window; but was fatally shot when he landed. My grandmother Genya and her two youngest children (17-year-old Mira and her 21-year-old brother Yanchi) were taken to the Plaszow concentration camp. Genya was to be executed a few hours after his arrival; Yanchi was killed in the next camp to which he was transferred. Still in her teens, Mira survived four camps, including Auschwitz, and a death march.

The idea of ​​laying “Stolpersteine” on the pavement at this location outside our grandparents’ house came from my sister Lilianne. These are small brass memorial blocks on which details of each person’s name and fate are individually engraved, seven in total for the Blumenstock family.

There are currently 116,000 such stones, the invention of the artist, throughout Europe. Günter DemnigIt is the largest decentralized monument project in the world. These are called “Stolpersteine” or “stumbling stones” because Demnig wanted people to stay where they were, not just with their feet but also with their hearts.

Another, perhaps apocryphal, reason is often cited when it comes to Demnig’s selection. In Nazi Germany, when someone tripped over a cobblestone, an anti-Semitic joke was made: “A Jew should be buried here.” Demnig also took inspiration from the Jewish text known as the Talmud: “A person is forgotten only when his name is forgotten.”

The mayor of Spisska Stara Ves organized a dignified ceremony for the laying of the stones, and it was very touching for us to see how many townspeople came in stylish clothes. The quartet of musicians played Jewish songs, including Jewish songs. Violinist on the Roof.

Mayor Jan Kurnava said in his speech that the stones “give a voice to those whose voices have been lost.” [and] It is our duty to remember not only the tragedy, but also that these people are our neighbors, our friends, our classmates, our fellow citizens. “Their names belong to the history of our town, and their stories are part of our collective memory.”

Among those attending was a 90-year-old man who came on his bicycle. My grandfather was only nine years old when he was shot and killed, and he remembered the day the townspeople collected Dolfie’s body, buried it, and held a funeral in the Jewish cemetery. I was shocked to learn that this was an open casket, not made according to Jewish burial laws. But of course, by then there were no Jews left to control.

When we arrived in town, our first stop was Dolfie’s tombstone, which Mira and her two surviving brothers had restored. It is striking and solemn, and stands in painful contrast to the disorderliness of the many fallen tombstones there, their inscriptions muddy and worn.

Many people warned me about this trip, in which I followed in my mother’s footsteps: not only to Spisska Stara Ves, but also to the High Tatras, where she loved to holiday, and to Poland, where Dolfie was born. They said that given that more than 90 percent of Polish Jews (about 3 million) were killed during the Holocaust, I would be constantly aware of the blood under the streets, but this was not the case. In Krakow I could appreciate the winding streets, grassy parklands, old buildings; Some of these—with their tiers, frosty scrollwork, and pastel colors—reminded me of wedding cakes.

In Poland, I visited two concentration camps where Mira suffered. I thought Plaszow was just an open field, with nothing left of the camp, but that wasn’t entirely true. The grounds also form part of the Plaszow museum and as you wander around them you get a sense of the scale and size of the camp along with a number of small markers or ruins, with signage explaining these in more detail.

My tour guide works at the museum and helped me research Mira’s story: He showed me where Mira would stand when she first arrived, where she was separated from her mother during the “selection”, where the prisoners were divided into two groups, those who would live and those who would die.

What I didn’t expect was to go up a hill and reach a gap in the hill. Covered with grass and flanked by a tall statue, it is clearly seen that this is a sacred place.

It took me a while to realize that this was also the place of Genya’s death: the pit she had to crawl over was on a wooden plank, shot while hanging above her. Considering that the Nazis burned the bodies to hide evidence of their crimes, his ashes must still be there, buried deep in the ground.

Some may find this horrific, but I don’t: I grew up with the Holocaust on both sides of my family tree, and all four of my grandparents were murdered. I never expected to visit Genya’s final resting place or to have a place to pay my respects and pray.

When I visited Auschwitz, I prayed a different kind of prayer. Nothing can prepare you for the scale or industry of this. Even though it’s now full of tourists, nothing can take away the horror. One can see the brutal conditions in which the prisoners lived, especially in Block 11, the camp prison. There, the four men were forced into small “standing cells” where the weather was harsh (the entire area has a covered opening of only five by five centimeters) and they could not sit, where they died, mostly from starvation or suffocation.

It was impossible to imagine my energetic mother, Mira, who was still in her teens and famous for her dimples and beauty, wandering around this camp. It’s an inhumane place. I was carrying a copy of the book I wrote about Mira with me during the tour. A Bright Life, Its cover features a photograph of a yellow Jewish Judenstern altered to look like a shining star above it.

On a whim, I took the book out of my bag and leaned it against one of the barracks. The sun caught its golden relief and sent its light in different directions. Seeing it there was almost more satisfying than writing the book itself. This felt like such a fierce defiance and a supreme act of victory.

The Nazis left behind only a legacy of hatred and ugliness. Mira had survived, and the story she told in such detail would live on forever. Not only what he endured, but also how he lived with such vitality, joy and radiant goodness. His light was stronger than their darkness.

I now realize that this is at the core of Holocaust commemoration. “Never forget” became his motto to ensure that evil was never destroyed or diminished, that the lessons of letting hatred go unchecked were never ignored.

But there is also a feeling that is true. I want to always remember: my mother’s Jewish pride, her strength, her magic. Not just the horror he experienced, but also the incredible beauty he epitomized.

His power did not end when his life ended. And that’s what will always endure.

International Holocaust Remembrance Day is on January 27.