Girl

Alona Frankel

Description

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Alona Frankel was just two years old when Germany invaded Poland. After a Polish carpenter agreed to hide her parents but not her, Alona's parents desperately handed her over to a greedy woman who agreed to hide her only as long as they continued to send money. Isolated from her parents and living among pigs, horses, mice, and lice, Alona taught herself to read and drew on scraps of paper. The woman would send these drawings to Alona's parents as proof that Alona was still alive. In time, the money ran out and Alona was tossed into her parents' hiding place, at this point barely recognizing them. After Poland's liberation, Alona's mother was admitted to a terminal hospital and Alona handed over to a wealthy, arrogant family of Jewish survivors who eventually cast her off to an orphanage. Despite these daily horrors and dangers surrounding her, Alona's imagination could not be restrained. A powerful testament to the resilience of the human spirit, Girl is the story of a young girl's self-preservation through a horrible war and its aftermath. Faithful to the perspective of the heroine herself, Frankel, now a world renowned children's author and illustrator, reveals a little girl full of life in a terrible, evil world.

Sujets

• Personal Memoirs
• 20th Century
• Modern
• Holocaust
• HISTORY
• Histoire
• Alona Frankel
• The Holocaust
• List of Holocaust survivors
• Modern history
• Memoir
• Obermodern-Zutzendorf
• Holocauste

Informations

• Publié par: Indiana University Press
• Date de parution: 29 août 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780253022417
• Langue: English

Extrait

girl
girl
my childhood and the second world war
alona frankel
Translated from the Hebrew by Sondra Silverston
INDIANA UNIVERSITY PRESS
Bloomington Indianapolis
This book is a publication of
Indiana University Press
Office of Scholarly Publishing
Herman B Wells Library 350
1320 East 10th Street
Bloomington, Indiana 47405 USA
iupress.indiana.edu
2016 by Alona Frankel
All rights reserved
Some names of individuals who were not family members have been changed throughout this book.
All images are from the United States
Holocaust Memorial Museum collection, donated by Alona Frankel.
No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The Association of American University Presses Resolution on Permissions constitutes the only exception to this prohibition.
The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences-Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Frankel, Alona, author.
Title: Girl : my childhood and the Second World War / Alona Frankel ; translated from the Hebrew by Sondra Silverston.
Other titles: Yaldah. English
Description: Bloomington and Indianapolis : Indiana University Press, [2016]
Identifiers: LCCN 2016003858| ISBN 9780253022288 (cl : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780253022356 (pb : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780253022417 (e-book)
Subjects: LCSH: Frankel, Alona. | Jews-Poland-Biography. | Jewish children in the Holocaust-Poland-Biography. | Holocaust, Jewish (1939-1945)-Poland-Personal narratives.
Classification: LCC DS134.72.F724 A313 2016 | DDC 940.53/18092-dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016003858
1 2 3 4 5 21 20 19 18 17 16
to my mother, Gusta Goldman, n e Gruber
to my father, Salomon Goldman
to my sons, Ari and Michael
Contents
Girl
girl
THEY WERE ALWAYS WITH ME. THE LICE, MY LICE.
I was familiar with two kinds of lice, head lice and clothes lice. Only later did I learn of the existence of another kind, pubic lice, from the four-volume Encyclopedia of Sexual Knowledge that survived from the Jewish gynecologist s library. The doctor himself, his mother, wife, two daughters, and baby son were murdered by the Germans. That was at the beginning of the war.
When Hania Seremet took me out of the village where I was hiding, pretending to be a Christian child, and dumped me at my parents hiding place, I learned for the first time the difference between head lice and clothes lice-an important and meaningful difference.
When I was in the village, the lice never bothered me. They swarmed all over me, and of course I scratched constantly. I thought that s how it was in the world.
More than once, a careless louse would get caught under my nail. More than once one dropped out of my hair when I bent my head. What was the fate of such an adventurous louse that suddenly loses the head of its little Jewish girl? None of that worried me, everything was natural. Sleeping on straw in a coffin that was a bench by day and a bed by night. The horse, the cow, the stupid geese that nipped my ankles. The carrots, the corn, the wheat, the flowers. The mice, the lice, the bugs. The boiling potato soup that burned my palms and congealed into grayish vomit when it cooled. The old man, the grandfather, who spit his lungs out until he died, but not before he pulled my tooth with rusty carpenter s pliers and rescued me from terrible pain.
It was my mother who was so very, very worried.
It was night when Hania Seremet dumped me at my parents hiding place. The room my parents were hiding in had two doors, one of them from the stairs. We never used that door, and no one imagined it could be opened, not even the building s tenants. The room, a Jewish gynecologist s office before the war, was now disguised as the carpentry shop of Mr. Juzef Juzak, carpenter and alcoholic. The other door was from the Juzaks apartment.
When the ghetto was about to be liquidated, the Juzaks were kind enough to hide my mother and father, but on one condition: that they come without the girl. Without me.
Softly, Hania Seremet knocked the agreed-upon knock on the staircase door. I sensed her anxiety and realized that fear has a smell. No one was allowed to see that door open. It would bring the Gestapo running, and that would be the end of all of us, including the Juzaks.
My mother, who must have been lying in wait for hours on the other side of the door, opened it instantly. Hania Seremet shoved me hard over the threshold. She tossed a bundle of papers and a bundle of rags, my clothes, after me. My green dress with the satin flowers, the one my mother made for me and sent to the village, the one I wore when my picture was taken with Hania Seremet in the photographer s studio so she could send it to my mother and father as proof that I was still alive-in addition to my drawings, which she sent from time to time-the green dress wasn t in the bundle of rags. Hania Seremet had obviously sold it.
Hania Seremet ran off quickly after finally getting rid of me. She must have breathed a sigh of relief, sure that we would all be dead before long. The smell of the sweat of her fear lingered.
Hania Seremet had wanted to get rid of me for a long time, but even so, she didn t throw me into the street like she did Daniel, the sweet boy she left at the ghetto gate after his parents were murdered in an aktion and there was no one to pay to keep him in the village. The ghetto had already been liquidated when Hania Seremet got rid of me, but even so, she didn t toss me into the street. Maybe she believed my mother s lies about her connection to the underground-the Polish underground, the AK , the Home Army, whose members were not known as Jew lovers-and about their promise to kill her the minute they found out I was dead, and they d do it even though I was Jewish.
The meeting had been set up in an exchange of letters that arrived in the Juzaks name, written in a prearranged code.
The door closed behind me. The key scraped in the keyhole. The bolt fell into place.
I stood there. I thought that s how it was in the world.
I STOOD WITH MY BACK TO THE DOOR, MY PRECIOUS FORGED papers and the rags packed in a threadbare knapsack at my feet.
In front of me was a woman, my mother, thin and light-skinned, her lips sunken, her gold crowns pulled from her mouth in a series of exchanges-a gold crown for another week in the village, another week on the Aryan side, the side of life, the life of the child, Ilonka, my life. A man stood behind her, my father. I didn t remember them.
I didn t remember who they were.
My mother said, Ilonka, Ilusia.
My father struck a match stub and lit a lamp, or maybe a candle.
They looked at me, and looked and looked. My mother wept silently. My father covered his face with his hands and smoothed back his hair, leaving his hands on his forehead and eyes-a gesture that stayed with him till the day he died. His pale, high forehead invaded his dark, straight hair in two deep gulfs.
My mother picked me up, put me on the massive desk, undressed me and said, Ilonka, Ilusia, Ilitska. But I was Irenka. I knew that I was Irenka. I knew that I was Irena Seremet.
I saw and I was invisible.
In the light of the candle or the lamp-I recall a foul smell-the woman began inspecting me, checking every little part of my body.
My mother and father hadn t seen me for months, and despite all the proof, the photographs and the drawings that Hania Seremet sent them, they hadn t believed I was still alive. Every little part of my body astonished my mother profoundly. How healthy I was, how tanned. How many sores I had on my hands, how deep they were-my knuckles were scraped down to the bone from rubbing potatoes on the sharp, rusty grater. How shiny my cheeks were, so round and red. Like two apples, she said. How hard the skin on the bottom of my feet was-I d run around barefoot in the village. How dirty I was.
And how I was teeming with lice.
She walked around me over and over again, and I wanted very much not to be there.
My father stood and watched, occasionally putting his palms back on his forehead and eyes.
My mother and father, who d been in their hiding place for days on end, were pale, exhausted, and starved. My father had very large eyes, and my mother no longer had teeth. My father had pulled out all her gold crowns and bridges, the ones her brother Leibek, a dentist, had fitted her with after she d come back ill from her pioneering escapade in Palestine.
My father had pulled out her bridges and crowns with his pocketknife.
My father s expensive, amazing, ultramodern pocketknife, the Swiss pocketknife he was so proud of, the first thing he d bought for himself with his own money. My father had worked from the time he was a child, and others always needed the money he earned more than he did-his widowed mother Rachela Goldman, his younger brother Henryk Goldman, and his baby brother David.
That pocketknife was the height of sophistication. A remarkable tool that I found endlessly magical. The most wonderful in the world. Countless parts popped out of it.
Some of them had functions the world had never known.
From the time she was a child, my mother suffered from problems with her teeth, which got much worse when she was a pioneer in Palestine. She immigrated there with