The Daughter of Auschwitz. My Story of Resilience, Survival and Hope

Chapter Eighteen. New York, New York

Lashed by thick hawsers to the moorings in Bremerhaven, the ship towered above me. I felt a flutter of excitement in my stomach at the dockside. What an adventure, I thought. We were leaving everything behind to start afresh. A new school, new language and new friends all awaited. This boat was the beginning of the next chapter of my life. I was eleven and a half years old.

The vessel was called the General R.M. Blatchford, but to us and everyone else mounting the steep covered gangplank on March 26, 1950, it was a Ship to Freedom. I was number 263 on the passenger manifest. Mama and Papa were assigned the two numbers before me. There must have been about 1,000 exhausted and emotionally drained refugees on board, each with their own dream and plan for life in America.

Although the General Blatchford was only five years old, she had clearly seen better days. This was no luxury transatlantic cruise liner. Rust patches scarred her paintwork. The interior was austere, commensurate with a vessel designed to carry 3,500 American troops across the ocean to the front lines of Europe. The soldiers who sailed before us must have been hellishly cramped, because even though the ship was only a third full, the cabins were overcrowded. The conditions evoked memories of confinement in the ghetto, but I quickly banished those thoughts because I recognized the difference in the two situations.

At first, we made good progress and the sea was relatively calm. After a day or so, we entered the English Channel and were able to see the White Cliffs of Dover off to starboard. But as we left England behind and entered Atlantic waters, the voyage took a turn for the worse. Buffeted by strong winds and tall waves, the General Blatchford lurched unpredictably, pitching up and down and from side to side. An epidemic of seasickness engulfed the vessel. Even veteran crew members were throwing up. It was impossible to keep your footing on the floors of cabins, corridors and restrooms that had been transformed into foul-smelling skid pads. Motion sickness was contagious. The sight or sound of someone hurling triggered a similar reaction from those nearby.

Mama was violently ill as the ship was tossed around like a toy. Her head hurt. The claustrophobia of the cabin and stench of vomit were unbearable. We moved our mattresses topside onto the deck, where small groups of passengers huddled together, trying to keep upright. When the wind subsided and balance was easier, animated Yiddish reverberated around the deck as people shared stories from the war. Everyone had been touched by tragedy. Muffled sobs were lost in the wind as Holocaust survivors found themselves overcome by memories. Although we were dampened by the spume and lacerated by the wind, the air was fresh and so much better than inside the cabin. Mama didn’t seem to notice the difference, though. She gripped her mattress beneath the blankets. Her headaches intensified and she barely ate. I was convinced she would die if I left her. Throughout the entire crossing, I remained by her side.

“You take such good care of your mother”, observed a woman sitting nearby on a mattress with her husband and their beautiful young daughter.

“She saved my life”, I replied, rather defensively.

“I couldn’t save my two boys or their father”, she replied. “But I met my husband in a DP camp, and as we both lost our families, we are determined to start again”, she said, pointing to the girl, who must have been born after the war and about three years old.

Will it never end? I wondered. This constant reminder of the past.

I was still tending to Mama as we approached New York.

“We’re almost there”, said Papa. “Go to the bow and take a look at the Statue of Liberty. It’s a sight you’ll never forget. I’ll look after Mama”.

I was stunned by the size of the monument and how Lady Liberty’s eyes seemed to follow us as we steamed slowly by. Our teachers in Landsberg had prepared us all with photos, but I was completely enchanted by her sheer magnitude and the serenity of her face. Years later, when I read her inscription, I appreciated our welcome even more.

There and then, I resolved to do good on this earth. I had no idea how, but I promised to leave the world better than I found it. The pledge I made when I was eleven years old has influenced my relationships, my profession and my entire life.

After the turbulence of the Atlantic, the flat calm of New York Bay came as a relief to Mama, and she had rallied a little by the time we disembarked. We were greeted at the pier by a representative of the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, proffering coffee and doughnuts.

The woman from Immigrant Aid was under the impression we were heading to Massachusetts.

“More travel?” Mama exclaimed. “Never again, and I don’t care about Boston, wherever that is”.

The woman checked her clipboard and vanished. She returned with an official-looking man who spoke Yiddish, telling us we had to leave New York. Rain began falling, but Mama refused to budge from her perch on her suitcase. Her determination paid off. Along with other refugees, we were taken to temporary accommodation in a hotel in Manhattan.

It was April 4, 1950, the fourth day of Passover. I was still clutching Clara’s unopened box of matzah and found myself thinking back to that Passover in Starachowice when freedom was nothing but a fantasy. Here and now, though, the promise of freedom was real, and at the hotel, we joined several other families to celebrate Passover and liberty.

The next morning, and every following day, we stepped out of the hotel on the Upper East Side and explored Manhattan. We were overawed by the scale of New York and its vitality. The skyscrapers made me feel physically small, but I was infected by the energy of the people. After so many years of being constrained by barbed wire, watchtowers, gun muzzles and German shepherds, it was unbelievably liberating to be able to walk down any main avenue or side street of our choosing. I remember us suddenly finding ourselves in front of the Empire State Building, then the tallest structure in the world, and being completely mesmerized. It seemed to touch the clouds.

Papa relished playing the tour guide, pointing out parks, cinemas, restaurants and other landmarks. He couldn’t pass a street musician without stopping to enjoy the performance. It was as if he was rediscovering the joy of live music. The excitement of finding something new around every corner distracted me from tired legs and aching feet. Sometimes we visited Aunt Elka and Uncle Monyak, who were living in Upper Manhattan.

More often than not, Mama felt unwell and stayed behind in the hotel. But the walks I took with Papa weren’t just sightseeing excursions. Wherever we went, Papa was always seeking job opportunities.

“I know I’ll find a job here”, he said. “It may take some time, but in this country, there is plenty of work for everyone”.

Despite Papa’s efforts, Manhattan failed to yield employment, so he extended his search to the outer boroughs, and after three weeks, he was successful.

“We won’t be living on charity any longer”, he announced with a smile. “I’ve found a job and a small apartment in Astoria, Queens”.

My first apartment. I bounded up the three flights of stairs to our new rooms in Astoria, across the East River from Manhattan. I loved the place. Even if I had to sleep on the couch. What luxury — our own kitchen, bathroom, radio and even curtains!

At last, my formal education could begin. The first days in school were upsetting because I only spoke a few words of English. The principal and Mama decided that I should start in the fourth grade, and I was placed in a class with children two years younger than me. I felt humiliated, but I was determined to progress through the grades as quickly as possible to catch up with my English-speaking peers.

At the same time, although I only spoke Yiddish, Mama insisted that I begin my Jewish education, too. She handed me a slip of paper and told me that I was expected at a Sunday school in Manhattan. She wasn’t going to take me. I had to make my own way there. Initially, I was daunted, but then my old independent spirit kicked in, and I told myself that if Mama had enough faith in me, I could do it. So I took the piece of paper and entered the New York subway system alone for the first time.

I showed the address to women I encountered along the way and they all pointed me in the right direction, helping me to navigate the various lines and the complicated subway map. I switched trains several times but arrived safely.

Mr. Gupkin, the Yiddish-speaking principal, welcomed me warmly and introduced me to seven or eight classmates. The class was learning Yiddish, but the instructions were in English. After a while, the bell rang. Everybody disappeared and I was left alone in class, bewildered. Then one of the boys returned. He had very dark eyes and a full head of black hair.

“They all went to lunch. Did you bring any?” he asked, in perfect Yiddish.

I didn’t understand the question, even though it was in Yiddish, because I didn’t know what the word “lunch” meant. The boy took me by the hand and led me to the nearest drugstore with a food counter. I didn’t say a word and neither did he. He ordered a cheese-and-lettuce sandwich and gave it to me. I was touched by his warmth and kindness. His Yiddish was immaculate, as he talked to his grandparents every day. At the age of eleven, I made my first friend in America. Maier Friedman, the man I would marry.

That summer, while my parents worked long hours on a factory production line, I never left the apartment in Astoria, so that I could memorize the picture dictionary from A to Z, although I still couldn’t properly string together sentences in English.

At the beginning of the new school year, the teacher made me feel like an outsider. She told me to never discuss the war as it upset people. Once, when I showed my tattoo to a curious classmate, she called me into her office and admonished me.

“Tola, you will never fit in unless you forget all that. It makes people uncomfortable, and we really don’t want to hear it. The best thing would be to cut your braids, wear long sleeves and change your name to Susan”.

So, I did all three. I cut my hair short to look and feel less European and more American, as the teacher suggested. But I only remained Susan for a few weeks because remembering my new name was a challenge. People addressed this person called Susan and I didn’t realize they were talking to me. And then I thought more deeply about what the teacher was trying to make me do. Asking me to be Susan meant forgetting my past and my identity. I thought about the young tattooist from Auschwitz who had given me small-sized numbers and also told me to cover my arm to spare myself any embarrassment.

Why should I feel shame? I wondered.

I came to the conclusion that only an unkind world would pressure me to cover up the war crime against me. My number was now inextricably part of me; it showed what had been done to me, and that I was lucky to be alive. I compromised by giving up Susan, going back to my real name, but never talking to my classmates about the war again. That did not stop the other children from shunning me, however.

And it wasn’t just at school that people were unfriendly. In our neighborhood, our predominantly Italian neighbors were standoffish to the point of hostility, which puzzled me, as they seemed so kind and loving toward their own children.

I was envious of the Italians’ large families. I wished I had a little brother or sister to make me feel less lonely, but Mama felt that this world wasn’t meant for children. For her, it was too cruel and destructive for small, innocent beings. Papa and I were the center of her life, but beyond us, Mama rarely experienced joy. Society had failed her and stolen 150 members of her family.

Mama struggled with her faith, and although she never rejected God entirely, she questioned a deity that would tolerate its most faithful being cut down. She found it impossible to look forward with any optimism and mainly dwelled in the past.

I acknowledged that I was destined to be an only child and made my peace with that reality. Education was my refuge. Constant study offered an escape and a way of coping with loneliness. Lively voices on American radio kept me company while I buried my head in books. Gradually, my English improved and I caught up with my class. To my parents’ surprise and delight, I graduated the eighth grade with honors.

After a year in Astoria, Mama and Papa could no longer bear the district’s latent anti-Semitism. Very soon we were on the move again.