This is the touching and inspirational true story of Sala Lewis, who at
age ten was left alone to wander the streets of Poland after her family
was taken away by the Nazis.
Sala had been out with her friends
and came home to find her family gone and the apartment where she lived
sealed off. Everything she possessed was no longer hers. She had no
family, no clothes, no food, and at that moment in time, no future.
Sala
was strong willed. It was easy to see that, even though she was young,
Sala would not get lost in the world. She wouldn’t give up and she
wouldn’t allow herself to be afraid. Her uncompromising determination
led her to find the camp where her sister, Dora, was being kept. Once
the sisters were together, nothing could stop them.
Their love
and commitment to each other continued to be beyond reproach throughout
their time together. They believed in the American dream and the land of
opportunity. The proudest day of their lives was when they became
United States citizens. They were more than survivors, now, they were
Americans!
Read A Little History - Memoir - Sala Lewis
In the Beginning
I was ten
years old when the Germans separated my family. It happened so quickly we
didn’t even get to say goodbye. We lived in Sosnowicz, Poland, and all we were
told was the Germans needed workers. There were no choices. When the Germans
came to get you, you went. If you didn’t go, you were killed. That was the
beginning of the end.
I never
dreamt that I’d never see my family again. It wasn’t supposed to happen that
way. My parents were going to grow old together. We were going to share our
lives together, the good times, the bad times and everything in between. Then
in a flash, everything changed.
The
Germans took my family away from me, one by one. I never quite understood why,
but they told me it was because we were Jewish. I was taught not to question,
so I didn’t.
Then the
day came, the final separation. I had gone out to play for a short while but
when I returned, I came home to an apartment that had been sealed off and I
wasn’t allowed in.
I never
did see the inside of that apartment again, but I can still remember the joy we
shared every evening at dinnertime. We sang songs and told jokes. Sometimes we
didn’t sing that well or tell terribly funny jokes, but we had each other. That
was the feeling I liked best.
Salucia
was my birth name but everyone called me Sala, the name I prefer.
I was born
on a snowy, cold Christmas day. My father, Simon, was a butcher and my mother,
Eve, was a wonderful homemaker. I was one of eight children ‑ three girls and
five boys – Karl, Phillip, David, Kamek, Hanusz, Toby and Dora. Dora was the
light of my life, and as the years passed, she was the one who got me through
it all. Without her, I never would have survived. She was my lucky penny.
The Loneliness
Long ago,
I learned never to take anything for granted.
That’s how I got through the hard
parts, especially the loneliness. At the very beginning, they told us the work
camps were just places to work, nothing more. When Dora left, she promised she
would write, and she did just enough to let us know she was alive. When her letters
came, mother was so happy and so was everyone else. We took turns reading the
letters over and over again. Usually on those days, dinner was special and
mother didn’t seem as angry. But then there was the next, and there were no
letters. Those were the bad days. The very, very bad days.
As the
days passed, I missed Dora so much more than I thought I would. There was
nothing very different about our relationship. We were sisters. We fought a
little, yelled a bit and sometimes we even had fistfights. We were rather
ordinary, so I guess it was normal to miss even those fights. And I did.
We lived
in a very small apartment, which even in the best of circumstances made for
some pretty rough times. But all and all, I think we all started to miss the
squabbles and the “he said this,” and “she said that” after Karl, Phillip and
David left for the work camps.
Our family
was getting smaller, and day by day, my mother and father were growing older.
They didn’t say much, and maybe that was part of the problem. The Gestapo came,
they took and we suffered, but we didn’t talk about it.
Every
night at the dinner table, our conversation was less and less. In fact, what
used to be such a special time of the day became my least favorite. Sometimes I
pretended to have a stomachache, just so I wouldn’t have to sit there and look
at the empty chairs.
Late at
night, I used to lay awake and think about the good times. There was one
particular evening that was right up there with the best of the memorable
times. It was Chanukah.
Mother had
just brought the last batch of latkes to the table. Phillip looked at David,
Dora looked at me and we all looked at Karl, hoping he would get the message.
In a minute or two, we knew our message had been well received. Karl walked
over to the gramophone and looked at Mother. She could read his mind as well as
any one of us. She nodded to Karl and he turned on the music. One by one, we
all got up to dance and sing, all except Father. He just watched.
Then, as
always, Mother grabbed his hand and tried to get him up to dance. Usually he
said no, but not that night. That night he danced. I watched Mother and Father
holding each other tightly as they danced, hoping someday to have someone love
me the way my father loved my mother.
I
overheard my father as he whispered to my mother, “Eva my dear, we may never be
rich but look ... look at our children. This is what we posses. No man could
ever want more.”
The next
night, the Gestapo came. That was only the first visit. There would be many
others to follow, as well as reminders of what each day might bring. It was the
constant fear of the visits that upset my father the most, especially the night
before Dora left for the work camp.
I can
still feel the pain as I remind myself of Dora’s last night at home. My family
thought I was sleeping, but after overhearing their conversation, I didn’t
sleep a wink.
My father
watched as Dora packed a small bag. “When you come back my child, I will not be
here,” he said. “So you go tomorrow and remember to do whatever you have to
stay alive. I promise you life will offer you more, much more, but never give
up what you believe in. Never.”
Dora’s
voice quivered as she spoke. “Don’t say that. You will be here when I return. I
know you’ll be here. You just have to.”
“Dora, listen
to me,” my father said. “I’ve had my life. When I stand back and take a good
look at all my children, I can ask for no more. I have no right.”
“You have
every right,” Dora said, as she put her arms around Father and gave him a great
big hug. “Of course, you have every right, we are family. We belong together,
and we will be together again. G-d will have it no other way.”
All night
I tossed and turned, wondering why I wanted so much more than anyone else. My
dreams were of acting and performing on stage. What if the Gestapo took me? I
wouldn’t go. I would tell them no way and ask them to go. Why didn’t Dora do
that? She should have done that.
As the
days and nights passed, our entire community of Jewish friends was slowly being
taken away. It was a slow process with quite an effect on everyone. Father
didn’t smile as much as he used to and Mother kept herself busy. She cooked and
cleaned and cleaned and cooked, and when she heard bad news, she cleaned some
more.
We didn’t
talk about what was happening, but it was quite evident to me we were no longer
the happy family we used to be. Every time I looked into my father’s eyes, they
were red and swollen. I knew he had been crying, but he never admitted to it.
It was becoming more difficult to pretend our situation wasn’t critical, but as
long as my family pretended, so did I. I had become very good at pretending. We
all had.
Days would
pass without changes. However, when my older brother Karl’s wife Lusia and
their son Jurek came to live with us, things did change. Father talked a bit
more and Mother sometimes even smiled. Having a baby in the house eased the
tension a bit for us, but not for Lusia. Every day we waited for the mailman,
hoping to hear from Karl, but there were no letters. There were never going to
be any letters.
As if
enough hadn’t happened, Lusia had gone out to get some milk and never returned.
After three hours of pacing back and forth at the window, my father went out to
see if he could get anyone to tell him what happened. We knew it was getting
worse.
When he
finally did return and my mother saw the look on my father’s face, she cried
out to him, “They took her. The Gestapo, they took her. Oh my G-d.”
It was
horrible watching little Jurek standing at the door, waiting for his mother to
come home. It was days later when we finally found out Lusia wouldn’t be coming
back. That’s when I began to write letters to myself. I needed to feel as if I
was doing something that mattered.
To Me —
Maybe if I were a little older or a
little smarter, I would understand just what was happening. Sometimes late at
night when everyone was sleeping, I would get up and look outside. All I ever
saw was darkness. I didn’t see the soldiers marching and I couldn’t hear the
cries. I don’t know if it’s just the beginning or the very end. Why doesn’t
someone tell me something?
Me
Without a Goodbye
It was a
day like any other. As I raced up the stairs, I waved goodbye to my friends.
When I got to my apartment, I knew something was wrong. Our apartment was
sealed off and I couldn’t get in. My family was gone and no one knew where they
were.
I tried
not to panic, but I was scared. I didn’t understand what had happened and why
they didn’t wait for me. I didn’t know what to do, so I ran outside and into
the street. I knocked on the neighbors’ doors, but no one knew what had
happened to my family.
Finally, I
ran to the schoolyard after someone on the street said my parents would be
there. I had to keep wiping my eyes as the tears kept falling from my eyes.
When I walked around the back, I could see my mother in the window.
As she
waved to me, I moved closer toward the window. I called out to her, “I want to
be with you. Take me with you Mother, I’m afraid.”
“Salusia,
my child,” Mother said as she called back to me. “Do not be afraid. I will wait
for you up here. But first you must run to your aunt’s house and get some money
to buy candy for the children.”
I looked
up at my mother and shouted. “Please don’t do this to me. I want to be with
you.”
“You
will,” she said, as she called down to me.
“Where’s
father?” I asked.
Mother
shrugged her shoulders and motioned for me to go. As always, I did as she
asked. While walking away, I couldn’t help but wonder why my younger brother,
sister and Jurek were with her but I wasn’t. I looked back and waved
goodbye.
Mother
waved back and said, “I’ll be here when you return.”
But she
wasn’t. No one was. That was the last time I ever saw them.
That night
I wandered the streets, hoping Father would be out there somewhere. When I got
tired, I walked back to our apartment, where I sat on the steps hoping my
father would come back to find me. Somebody should have, but nobody did.
Instead, I woke up sitting on the stairs alone. I couldn’t help but feel
abandoned. I was.
Finally, I
realized I was on my own. Even my aunts and uncles wouldn’t take me in. No one
wanted the extra burden. One time, my uncle sent me out some scraps of food to
eat, to be eaten outside only. They were afraid I would bring in unwanted
germs. The hell with the germs, I thought. What about me? Doesn’t anybody
realize I’m still a little girl, a scared little girl?
The hours
turned into days and the days turned into weeks. I never slept in the same
place twice. As I roamed from place to place, I heard bits and pieces about the
Germans and the horrible things they were doing to my people, just because we
were Jewish. None of it made any sense, but it did make me cry a lot. I tried
my best not to think of my family being tortured or worse than that. Word of
the death camps left me sleepless and afraid to close my eyes. I tried to have
faith in G-d, but sometimes I wondered if there really was a G-d. I was certain
if there was one, how could he let this happen? And more than how, why?
To Me —
Maybe if I could have kissed my
mother and father goodbye, I wouldn’t feel so empty. Maybe if I were with them,
I could close my eyes at night and not see their faces. Maybe if I didn’t love
my brothers and sisters so much, it wouldn’t hurt so much not to see them
again. Maybe if I would stop crying, I would feel better. Maybe this and maybe
that. Maybe if I closed my eyes and pretended I wasn’t me, I wouldn’t be. Yes,
I think I’d like that a lot.
