Faces of Loss

By Robbie Waisman, Holocaust survivor

The extraordinary exhibit Faces of Loss now on display is the conception of our Executive Director, Roberta Kremer and her staff. Initially, I thought it would serve well to fill in between our various major exhibits. I must admit that I was totally wrong, having seen the photos of the many faces of those who perished. Each one contains a heart-wrenching story of loss. There are images of mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents, spanning all ages. They look out at you and the impact is overwhelming – one wonders what might these people have been had they lived.

In my own case –I am fortunate to have just one photo of my brother Chaim, the only family photo that I have in my possession. The photo survived by some miraculous fluke. A friend of the family spotted it after the war in my hometown of Skarzysko, Poland, in the window of a photographer’s shop and retrieved it for us. The picture of my older brother in his Polish army uniform is a precious treasure that my sister Leah and I cherish. My father knew the importance of photographs and had sewn the family pictures and jewels that had been in the family for generations, into the lining of my jacket. Unfortunately, all were lost, when we were forced to undress before going into the showers in the work camps where my jacket was taken from me. I do not miss the jewellery, but would give anything to have those precious photos of those in my family that perished.

This one remaining photo brings with it so many wonderful memories – bittersweet ones. I can see my brother, Chaim at home on leave, in his elegant uniform and young ladies hanging around our home on some pretext, hoping to be noticed. I remember one exceptionally gorgeous girl named Golda. I was 8 years old and had a crush on her – I was smitten with love. I guess my brother had very good taste because he thought so too and ultimately married Golda. I had no choice but to give her up. I cannot forget the joy I had felt when the two married. The wedding party celebrated for a week.

The new couple moved into a beautiful apartment not far from our home, visited often and never missed Shabbat with us.

After a year of marriage, they had their first child – a boy named Nathan. I was extremely close to him and I loved him beyond words. I was the proudest uncle in the neighbourhood. I often speculate what he might have achieved had he not perished in the Holocaust. I find this difficult and I am saddened each time I think of him. I had internalized the death of my beloved nephew, Nathan, and wonder how anyone can even attempt to grasp the death of one and a half million innocent Jewish children.

Nathan’s mother, Golda, had the opportunity to save herself by going to work into the munitions factory in Skarzysko. She chose not to abandon her little boy and left the ghetto with him packed into a cattle car heading for Treblinka. My brother, Chaim was my hero–I loved him with all my heart. I was sure for the longest time that he had survived the war.

I simply would not accept any other possibility. I was devastated when I found out the details of his death 25 years later from a friend of our family. I learned that my brother was killed during a failed attempt to escape from the work camp. To this day I find it hard to accept his death. As I get older the memories seem to intensify and the losses take on a sorrow as never before.

There was no place for thoughts or feelings during the Holocaust. To survive and to be reunited with our family was our only hope. We felt betrayed because we were told that we would be reunited with our loved ones, and then were not.

Had I known the extent of my loss during my days in the camps, I am convinced that I would not have had the will to survive. After liberation, the temptation to forget and to assimilate back into a normal life beckoned to every survivor. As youngsters we were urged by well-meaning caregivers to forget and move on. How could we forget that we came out of hell, wounded and humiliated from camps or from hiding? How can one forget the enormity of that kind of loss and come to terms with the brutal annihilation of so many of our people?

I have come to realize, and I am sure many other survivors have as well, that our survival must be interpreted as a gift, a sacred trust given us to live our lives in a way that would make our parents and the loved ones who perished, proud.