Yom HaShoah - Never Forget

Yesterday, I sat down to write a post about Holocaust Memorial Day. I couldn't find the words and voice to say what I was feeling. This day always brings me sadness. This is the day that I'm reminded of the family I never got to know. I'm reminded that neither of my parents had the pleasure of knowing and loving their grandparents. I'm reminded that my father never got to know the uncle his brother is named for. I'm reminded that my mother missed out on loving aunts and uncles because someone decided Jews weren't worthy of life.

In Ashkenazic tradition, babies are named after those that died. Yoav is named for my grandfather's uncle - Yehoshua - and he carries on the "Y" "R" (י.ר.) initials that my father, my grandfather, great-grandfather, and great-great grandfather had. My new nephew, Asher, is named for my Papa Albert and Bubba Licha. Every child in my family is named after someone. I was named after the great Bubbies Esther. There were two of them named Esther and my grandparents used to joke around that if I was good, I was named after my Bubba's grandmother; if I was bad, I was named after my Zeidy's grandmother.

Lola Rubin (far left) in the ghetto

As I look at Yoav, I can see a hint of red hair - which comes from my Papa's side of the family. I can see the square chin that comes from my Bubba's side of the family. Today, of all days, I can feel the presence of those I never had the pleasure of knowing.

Lola Rubin, before and during the Holocaust

In a half-hour, a siren will sound throughout the State of Israel. Cars will stop; people will cease working. Everyone will stand at attention, in silence, for two minutes. These are the saddest two minutes of my year. These two minutes give me time to think about the atrocities my grandparents lived through. These two minutes reaffirm EXACTLY WHY I want to study Holocaust history. These two minutes remind me : NEVER FORGET.

Amalia and Solomon Kaulfer. Amalia was murdered upon arrival at Auschwitz.

As survivors die, their stories die with them. I'm lucky enough to know some family stories but there are some stories my grandparents will take to their graves. Stories that are too horrific to share with anyone. When my Zeidy would recount his time in the ghetto and his time in the camps, you could see that he veered off to a land he wanted to forget. My Papa (Z"L) never wanted to share his stories. My Bubba (Z"L) wanted us to know what life was like for her during the war. My Grandma wanted her granddaughters to know that she survived by trusting her female instinct and by digging deep within her to find the strength needed to live.

Helen and Antal Schwarcz with children Margit and Bela. ALL murdered in the Holocaust.

NEVER FORGET. These words mean everything to me and I take them seriously. Do you?