When I am asked how the Holocaust affects the second generation, I wonder for a moment whether I am qualified to represent them.
In fact, I belong to the generation of Sabras who were born in Israel and integrated into the country's existence. I represent the generation of children raised by Abba Hushi, the mythical mayor of Haifa.
Father Khushi gave us free textbooks and writing instruments. As a token of appreciation, he sent us colorful booklets with photos of all the Carmel flowers and kindly asked us not to pick wildflowers.
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He made sure that we got to know Israel's songbirds and went to agricultural exhibitions, so that we would be well connected to this country. He initiated amazing flower exhibitions in Haifa, to demonstrate that Israel was on the world map and was growing, exporting, and developing in leaps and bounds.
What more do you need than that?
Father Hushi ruled with a strong hand, until 1970, in Haifa and its surrounding areas (Kiryat Haim, Kiryat Shmuel, Kiryat Eliyahu, Kiryat Eliezer, Neve Sha'anan, Ahuza and the Carmel). It was important to him that the younger generation turn a new leaf.
But Abba Khushi was unable, despite his great influence, to erase the memories of the parents who were "there," the ones who experienced the inferno firsthand.
True, my father did not tell us any details about everything he went through in Auschwitz and what happened before and after. He decreed silence on this subject. But my mother told us. She spared us no detail. She emphasized that she was telling so that the things would not be forgotten. So that they would be engraved on the tablet of our hearts. So that we would know, understand and remember. In the sense of "remember what Amalek did to you.".
These difficult and sad stories accompanied me everywhere. In daydreams and dreams.
I was four years old when I started thinking about what I would have done if, God forbid, I had been born in that generation. It was horrifying and chilling.
I tried to imagine all kinds of situations, one more difficult than the other. Until I forced myself to stop thinking. Because it's terrible.
As I grew older, the thoughts returned and attacked from a different direction: I debated with myself the fateful question – how I could have protected my children, had I lived during the dark period of the Holocaust. This struggle was much worse than thinking about "how I would have survived.".
Your brother's blood cries out.
My middle name is Malka, after my aunt, my mother's sister.
Malka was sent with her young children to the gas chambers, by the devil himself, Dr. Mengele. Mengele, the Nazi, decided, without batting an eyelid, "to leave her." Only because of the children who hung on her in fear and terror.
And although she was a young woman with strength in her loins and could have been useful as a laborer, she was sent to her death with the tender child. A mother to her sons...
When I hear the word "Europe," the first connotation that comes to mind is: a land where, wherever you set foot, your brother's blood cries out to you from the blood-soaked soil. And I have visited these places, and with my own eyes I have seen the anti-Semitism that has not escaped.
Therefore, it is clear how, slowly, a blind admiration for those who were "there" and survived developed in me. And especially for those who were "there" and remained faithful to the Creator, the Blessed One.
Because it wasn't self-evident at all. And this immense power of faith was passed down to us by our parents. This is the power of the second generation – the spirit that beats despite everything. Despite the difficulties.
You are saving for a time of crisis.
There are small nuances that I don't even notice, that accompany the heirs of the Holocaust generation. Maybe I wouldn't know how to put my finger on the strange points, but my sons, who live, notice and notice, and, like true sabras, they also announce it out loud.
Consider the following prosaic example:
Sometimes my son comes down from his room straight to the living room and catches me red-handed, rummaging through the cans for a specific can, such as peas and carrots, to make potato salad.
I'm leaning over the cupboard under the bookshelves and he smiles to himself and remarks, doubt to himself, doubt to me, but loudly enough: "This is the cupboard of Holocaust survivors. You're saving for a time of crisis.".
When he was right next to me, he said again: "I see you are the daughter of Holocaust survivors.".
With his characteristic humor, he alternates between the "ch" and the "sh" and mutters: "Nishuli's closet..." And I find myself apologetically explaining to him that I only have boxes here that I need for preparing salads in honor of Shabbat. But of course he is in his own.
On second thought, I think he's joking about the issue just to quiet his thoughts.
It seems to me that we have managed to pass on our fears to the third generation as well...
