"YOM HASHOAH"

Remembering

by Jay Frankston

"Holocaust" Bronze by the author

I was sitting at the counter at the Mendocino Cafe some time ago and this person sat down next to me. After a moment he turned to me:

In the late 1930s Hitler's anti-semitism had spread to France. I was nine years old. On the note-books I brought home from school, scribbled in children's handwriting, were the words "DEATH TO JEWS" and "HANG THEM ALL".

My name then was FRANKENSTEIN, something other children could make fun of, but also something which labeled me as a Jew. So I ran from the horde of misguided children to avoid a black eye or a bloody nose and took refuge in the isolation of my room.

Most of the time I was sitting alone, on the floor, by the bed, with soldiers of lead, an arm torn off here, a leg missing there, all victims of the great wars of my childhood. The sun filtering through the window and the shadow of the curtain, like lightning without thunder, brought life to my silent battlefield. Outside, on the street, young school mates of mine, waiting and chanting, sticking needles in my name, like pins in a voodoo doll, "Frankenstein, Frankenstein, come on out now Frankenstein" But I fought my battles with soldiers of lead, alone in my room, on the floor by the bed, charging up the hill, bugles blowing, flags flying, and the pain of fear inside. When my mother came home I ran to her arms and trembled. She held me and smiled but never asked why. I didn't tell her I was wounded that day, and she never knew I had cried.

Fifteen per cent of the French people actively collaborated with the Germans, joining the militia and participating in raids to round up Jews for deportation to concentration camps. Even taking children when the Nazis hadn't asked them to do so. And denouncing Jews who were in hiding.

My wife Monique's parents were among those who were denounced and were deported. They died in Auschwitz.

Hey Charlie! There's a nail in the wall in the room with the single light bulb. Do you remember? Three flights up and a fire escape but no one ever gets away. Torn sheets on the bed and a packed suitcase in the corner. Stranger things have happened, I know! Most of the time I was there, looking for my hat, my coat, my mother. She laughed. I told her and she laughed. You never show your face at the window. Someone might see. Someone might tell. Broken plaster on the ceiling. When was it they came? I was on the roof Charlie Where were you? Down in the basement, next to the boiler room. Oh! God! Why did you do it? The key. You gave it to them when you opened the door. . . . . Now there's a nail in the wall in the empty room and the outline of a picture that once hung there. That's all that's left. Remember the face Charlie? The smile, the eyes? It hangs like a loose chandelier over your head. It was long ago I know, But it's so hard to forget.

I have no feelings for those 15% who collaborated. They are like dead to me. But 80% of the French people did nothing. They just stood by while their friends and neighbors were carted off to their deaths in the ovens of the devil. THEY are the ones I hold accountable.

The trucks came rumbling down the Paris street at night. You stood at the window and watched. Uniformed French militia men jumped off and fanned out disappearing into the houses. As lights went on, floor after floor, and screams were heard and pounding on doors "Dehors! Dehors! Tout le monde dehors!" Out, out, everyone out You stood at the window and watched They were dragged out of their beds j and out of their lives j in the middle of the night men, women and children trembling wearing the yellow star sewn on to their coats with a handful of belongings in cardboard suitcases You stood at the window and watched They poured into the streets from building after building shoved, pushed, herded, beaten neighbors, friends Frenchmen one and all both pushers and pushed abusers and victims "Vite! Vite!" Hurry! Hurry! And they left in the trucks swallowed up by the night Never to be heard from again You stood at the window and watched.

And I can't help wondering what would have happened if people had spoken up.

The Danes spoke up. When the Nazis came out with an order that all Jews would have to wear the yellow star, the King and the Queen came out wearing the yellow star and many Danes followed suit. Then they took the Jews at night in their fishing boats and ferried them across to Sweden where they were safe and survived the war. So only a few thousand Danish Jews died in the Holocaust.

Fifty per cent of the German people were Catholics. What if the Pope had come out with an encyclical that Catholics shall not participate in the Nazi atrocities under penalty of ex-communication. How different things might have turned out.

And where are we today when so many things are happening in the world, in our country, in our cities, and in our neighborhoods? And what are we doing about it?

Speak up! Break the silence. Don't let them do it without you. There is no virtue in acquiescence. You're either a mover or a silent victim. Chain saws are buzzing. Stars are exploding. The rain tastes like vinegar and oranges glow in the dark. Speak up! Is this your doing? Can life go through the sieve and come out clean? Must we endure toxic waste in our haste to turn tomorrow into yesterday? Can we suffer our children to survive our abuses? Did the Holocaust teach us nothing? Speak up! There is no time. Break the silence before the dirt falls on your face.

"God of our Fathers, you chose Abraham
and his descendants to bring your Name
to the nations. We are deeply saddened
by the behavior of those who, in the course
of history, have caused these children of
yours to suffer and, asking your forgiveness,
we wish to commit ourselves to genuine
brotherhood with the people of the Covenant."

Text of the note the POPE
placed in the crack of the stones
of the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem
      6 Apr 2000

YOM HASHOAH", remembering, is a personal account of the Holocaust by Jay Frankston in prose and poetry and is available for $8.00. Jay Frankston Little River, CA 95456 wlp@mcn.org, wholeloafbooks.mcn.org

© Jay Frankston

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