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Jul. 18th, 2006 12:59 pmSettle down and I'll tell you a story. This is another of my family stories. It's about my mother's family.
Just over a century ago, it wasn't easy to be a Jew in Kishinev. My great-great-grandfather said to his offspring "Children, run away." These two words (he used Yiddish) is how so many of them survived the infamous Kishinev pogrom of 1903.
Forgive me if I confuse the number of siblings and where they went - some stories are burned in my brain and some I try to forget. My great-grandfather Mayer and great-grandmother Jane (Sheindl) fled to Cairo initially, where my grandmother and one of my great-aunts were born. Soon they joined great-uncle Yankel in Palestine. Family pilgrimages in the Middle East include two graves in Cairo and Uncle Yankel's erstwhile orchard in a suburb of Haifa.
One sibling ran as far as America and my great-great grandmother and a daughter (Fanny or Pauline) ran to Kiev. There might have been another daughter in Kiev, or it might have been a cousin (Pauline or Fanny?). One who didn't flee far enough and who was consumed by the Shoah.
Uncle Yankel lived to a ripe old age in Palestine and saw it become Israel. Fanny escaped Kiev and went to Palestine and finally came to Australia in 1939.
Mayer and his family came to Australia during World War I and my mother is the the only daughter of their second daughter. They lost all of Kishinev and were unable to pass down much of their culture, because the Australia they came to was White Australia. A safe country. No pogroms. Within a generation no-one spoke Yiddish or Russian or Romanian or any of the three other family languages. The food changed. Literature and education were all English. Even folk cultures were very, very different. And in Australia then, immigrants had to conform. Occasionally we mourned the loss of all that cultural richness, but mostly we were relieved that my great-grandfather listened to his father and ran so far from Europe.
And that is my mother's mother's family.
My mother's father's family was from Bialystock. They tried for a more measured migration to escape antisemitism. This more measured migration took place from the early 1900s to the 1930s. It came to a crashing halt when Australia closed its borders to most Jews. The fate of those who remained in Bialystock is documented in Arnold Zable's book Jewels and Ashes. I asked my mother who would be the closest relative to me in Jewels and Ashes and she said "The dwarf."
I'm not sure that there is an ending to these stories. This is a good thing. Too many tales of Jewish families finish with "And then they were all murdered."
Why am I blogging these stories now? It's a combination of things: what is happening in the Middle East (and I have friends in Lebanon as well as friends and family in Israel so no, I don't want to talk about it) and also it being 'blog against racism' week.
Mostly I keep thinking that it is possible to choose not to hate. It's an active choice, though, not something you just fall into. My family history is littered with the consequences of people not making that choice. Without hatred, my mother's family would have led rich and vibrant lives in Kishinev and in Bialystock. For a Jewish family, however, we're one of the lucky ones: our story hasn't ended yet.
Just over a century ago, it wasn't easy to be a Jew in Kishinev. My great-great-grandfather said to his offspring "Children, run away." These two words (he used Yiddish) is how so many of them survived the infamous Kishinev pogrom of 1903.
Forgive me if I confuse the number of siblings and where they went - some stories are burned in my brain and some I try to forget. My great-grandfather Mayer and great-grandmother Jane (Sheindl) fled to Cairo initially, where my grandmother and one of my great-aunts were born. Soon they joined great-uncle Yankel in Palestine. Family pilgrimages in the Middle East include two graves in Cairo and Uncle Yankel's erstwhile orchard in a suburb of Haifa.
One sibling ran as far as America and my great-great grandmother and a daughter (Fanny or Pauline) ran to Kiev. There might have been another daughter in Kiev, or it might have been a cousin (Pauline or Fanny?). One who didn't flee far enough and who was consumed by the Shoah.
Uncle Yankel lived to a ripe old age in Palestine and saw it become Israel. Fanny escaped Kiev and went to Palestine and finally came to Australia in 1939.
Mayer and his family came to Australia during World War I and my mother is the the only daughter of their second daughter. They lost all of Kishinev and were unable to pass down much of their culture, because the Australia they came to was White Australia. A safe country. No pogroms. Within a generation no-one spoke Yiddish or Russian or Romanian or any of the three other family languages. The food changed. Literature and education were all English. Even folk cultures were very, very different. And in Australia then, immigrants had to conform. Occasionally we mourned the loss of all that cultural richness, but mostly we were relieved that my great-grandfather listened to his father and ran so far from Europe.
And that is my mother's mother's family.
My mother's father's family was from Bialystock. They tried for a more measured migration to escape antisemitism. This more measured migration took place from the early 1900s to the 1930s. It came to a crashing halt when Australia closed its borders to most Jews. The fate of those who remained in Bialystock is documented in Arnold Zable's book Jewels and Ashes. I asked my mother who would be the closest relative to me in Jewels and Ashes and she said "The dwarf."
I'm not sure that there is an ending to these stories. This is a good thing. Too many tales of Jewish families finish with "And then they were all murdered."
Why am I blogging these stories now? It's a combination of things: what is happening in the Middle East (and I have friends in Lebanon as well as friends and family in Israel so no, I don't want to talk about it) and also it being 'blog against racism' week.
Mostly I keep thinking that it is possible to choose not to hate. It's an active choice, though, not something you just fall into. My family history is littered with the consequences of people not making that choice. Without hatred, my mother's family would have led rich and vibrant lives in Kishinev and in Bialystock. For a Jewish family, however, we're one of the lucky ones: our story hasn't ended yet.