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Bending Toward the Sun: A Mother and Daughter Memoir

Di Leslie Gilbert-Lurie

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Valutazione: 4.5 su 5 stelle4.5/5 (12 recensioni)

Lunghezza: 414 pagine6 ore

Editore:: HarperCollins
Pubblicato:: Sep 1, 2009
ISBN:: 9780061959196
Formato:: Libro

Descrizione

“Here is a memoir that takes us through many worlds, through heartache and noble hopes, through the mysteries of family love and toward a beautiful, light filled conclusion. Read Bending Toward the Sun and enrich your life.” — Rabbi David Wolpe, author of Why Faith Matters and Making Loss Matter-Creating Meaning in Difficult Times

A beautifully written family memoir, Bending Toward the Sun explores an emotional legacy—forged in the terror of the Holocaust—that has shaped three generations of lives. Leslie Gilbert-Lurie tells the story of her mother, Rita, who like Anne Frank spent years hiding from the Nazis, and whose long-hidden pain shaped both her daughter and granddaughter’s lives. Bringing together the stories of three generations of women, Bending Toward the Sun reveals how deeply the Holocaust lives in the hearts and minds of survivors and their descendants.

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Azioni libro

Inizia a leggere

Informazioni sul libro

Bending Toward the Sun: A Mother and Daughter Memoir

Di Leslie Gilbert-Lurie

Valutazioni:

Valutazione: 4.5 su 5 stelle4.5/5 (12 recensioni)

Lunghezza: 414 pagine6 ore

Descrizione

Leggi altro

Editore:: HarperCollins
Pubblicato:: Sep 1, 2009
ISBN:: 9780061959196
Formato:: Libro

Informazioni sull'autore

Leslie Gilbert-Lurie

A writer, lawyer, and former executive at NBC, Leslie Gilbert-Lurie is a member and former president of the Los Angeles County Board of Education and a teacher of Holocaust studies. A founding board member and past president of the nonprofit Alliance for Children's Rights, she has worked at a major Los Angeles law firm, served as a Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals law clerk, and is a member of the board of directors for several nonprofit organizations, including the Los Angeles Music Center. Recently Leslie was appointed by the mayor of Los Angeles to a panel to devise a new cultural plan for the city. She is a recipient of the American Jewish Congress's Tzedek Award for Outstanding Commitment to Civil Rights, Civil Liberties, and Justice, and the Alliance for Children's Rights Child Advocate of the Year Award. She lives in Los Angeles, California, with her husband, two children, and stepson.

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Bending Toward the Sun - Leslie Gilbert-Lurie

Prologue

MOMMY, I WAS afraid that you died.

"I didn’t die. Sleeping. I was sleeping." Holding my cell phone, I propped myself up on the pillow and regained my bearings. I was in an elegant hotel room in Washington, D.C. Judging from the burning sensation in my eyes, I had not been asleep for long.

I was so worried when you didn’t answer the phone. My daughter’s small voice trembled.

I answered the phone, honey. We’re talking.

Not until the fourth ring.

Her sadness and the demands I knew were soon to follow sent blood rushing to my temples. Mikaela, I’m fine.

I can’t stay here, Mommy.

I took a deep breath and thought fast. My voice softened. I just dropped you off a few hours ago. We talked about the fact that the first night might be an adjustment. What did you do this evening?

Nothing. I didn’t eat. I just cried.

She was in Bethesda, about twenty minutes away. Honey, it was a big honor to be chosen for this leadership conference. You were so excited about going, you have a good friend there, you’ll learn all about government, and—

"Mommy, please! Take me home! I’m only eleven years old, and I’m not ready for this. Please."

"Mikaela, you are ready. You’ll be so proud of yourself for sticking it out. What do you want to bet you’ll love it there by the end of the five days?"

She was sobbing now. I won’t. I hate it! I don’t even feel like myself here. I’m hiding in the bathroom so I don’t wake up my roommates, worrying that you’re going to die!

I’m not going to die. Not for fifty more years at least.

You don’t know that for sure.

I was afraid she would say that. You’re right. But I eat healthy foods, I exercise, I wear sunscreen, and I don’t drink and drive, so I should live for a very long time, right?

Can you at least come over here to give me a hug goodnight?

It’s a trap. She’ll never let me leave without her. If I had just flown out of town this afternoon, we would not be having this negotiation. It won’t help, sweetie. You’ll just miss me more if you see me. By now my head was aching.

I won’t. I swear.

I was not surprised by her determination, but I held firm. No.

You just don’t understand, she said angrily.

Yes, I do. I did understand. She was in pain, a kind with which I was all too familiar, and I could alleviate her anxiety just by jumping into a taxi. But it would be a mistake. Even though she had always been apprehensive about being away from me, she had made significant strides as of late. She’d been nervous about a recent two-night class trip to northern California, but had gone anyway and had ended up having a great time. I was certain that this new adventure would also surprise her, and provide further evidence that she could survive without me. After all, she was a survivor. She came by that honestly.

I GREW UP in 1960s suburban Los Angeles, part of a family that was living the American Dream. My parents raised my siblings and me in a friendly, safe, and well-kept community. Every home on the block and every kid looked more or less the same, with a smattering of ethnic diversity to break the monotony. I loved sports, especially baseball, made friends easily enough, and was a good student. My family ate dinner together nearly every night and took occasional vacations, much like the other families we knew.

Yet some things were different in our family. My mother believed that I could be president of the United States, but she hoped I could make the leap to high office directly from my cozy bedroom, where she knew I was safe. My mother didn’t like me to smile at strangers, play outside after dusk, visit friends whose parents weren’t nurturing enough, and most importantly, be far away from her. While I occasionally bristled at these restrictions, I lived by them. I knew that my mother’s fears were birthed by tragedy. She carried wounds whose power I could never comprehend.

My mother’s past bears eerie similarities to Anne Frank’s. Both my mother and Anne Frank spent two years in hiding during the Holocaust, from 1942 to 1944, while the Nazis searched for them. Both managed to live in an attic with their families, which was highly unusual. Jewish children were rarely able to hide with their families, and typically, hidden Jews spent only a short time in any one place. My mother and Anne Frank both were kept alive, in large part, because of the courage and kindness of non-Jewish friends. In my mother’s case, a Polish farmer and his wife sheltered a bewildered five-year-old girl and fourteen members of her family, including an infant.

Numerous comparisons can be made between my mother’s and Anne Frank’s experiences. But my mother was fortunate enough to survive. For decades, readers have wondered what Anne Frank might have become, had she lived. My mother’s coming-of-age story may provide some indirect insight, and shed light on the long-term impact of the Holocaust, and other tragedies, on the children involved.

I’ve begun this book with my mother’s story. Her memories from early childhood are unusually detailed, although surely idealized at times. I’ve taken some creative liberties in reconstructing dialogue, but always with an eye toward accurately reflecting the spirit of the conversations my mother recalled, and the manner in which she remembered family members speaking to one another. In addition to relying solely on the memory of my mother, I also interviewed six other relatives who hid with her in the attic.

I will never forget the evening my mother and I spent in the living room of her first cousin Sally. Four women, all in their sixties, who had hidden together in an attic as young children, a half century earlier, were sharing recollections. Given how rare it was for children to survive the Holocaust, such a family reunion was remarkable. And then there was my mother’s eighty-six-year-old uncle, Max. He had never wanted to share his memories, but that evening, he found himself leading the discussion.

Where most Holocaust narratives conclude, this one gathers momentum. Some of my mother’s most unsettling recollections stemmed from the period right after Germany surrendered to Allied forces during World War II. My mother’s story illuminates the fallout of the Holocaust as her family wandered throughout Europe for five heartbreaking years before coming to America. Her spirit, deep faith, and endurance against all odds provide powerful—and inspiring—evidence of the resilience of the human spirit.

IN THE SECOND and third parts of this book, my mother’s story becomes our joint account, narrated in my voice, and eventually includes my daughter, Mikaela. The stories of three generations merge in these pages, just as our hopes and dreams have so often in my life. Although my mother’s and my experiences bear virtually no similarity, it is in the overlapping shadows that we find common ground. My mother’s traumas became my nightmares. Not a day went by in balmy Los Angeles that I didn’t feel lashed by what she suffered through in Poland during the war. On the other hand, my mother’s hopes and aspirations also sowed the seeds for my ambition and my achievements.

Over countless breakfasts as a child I asked my mother the same questions about her past—the few that I knew to ask. What was it like to wake up that morning and see tanks outside your house? What did you eat inside the attic? Did you have meals with your mommy and daddy when you were hiding? If the answers could ever make sense to me, I believed, my world would finally feel safe. It wasn’t until some thirty-odd years later, after I traveled back to Poland to meet the family who hid my mother, to sit in the attic where her childhood disappeared like an ice cube on a feverish brow, and then spent nearly a decade writing this book, that I finally began to understand where my mother came from and how her experiences transformed her.

Once I had gotten that far, I felt emboldened to seek more answers. I researched further in hopes of discovering just how the trauma of my mother’s past had been transmitted to me, and then to my children. My husband and I had always encouraged our children to be adventurous. I worked vigilantly to prevent my fears from interfering with the messages I communicated to them. Even my daughter, who was more tentative than my son and stepson about separating from me, had always cheerfully rebounded as soon as we were reunited. I was surprised, therefore, when her anxiety did not diminish after she returned home from her trip to Washington, D.C.

There was something particularly persistent about the strain of fear Mikaela seemed to have contracted. I came to see that while scientists had found a way to prevent the virulent AIDS virus from passing, in utero, from mother to daughter, no such barrier had yet been discovered to prevent the effects of trauma from being transmitted across generations. As a result, it was not unusual to find children of Holocaust survivors, or the Second Generation, as we came to be known, weighed down by feelings of loss, guilt, and anxiety, and trapped in a dynamic with our parents of mutual devotion and overprotection. This fallout also clearly extended to a third generation. Like me, Mikaela, too, while strong and resourceful, seemed to be spiraling in the vortex of a tragedy that had taken place a half century before she was born.

As for exactly how such trauma might be transferred from one generation to the next, researchers have proposed a variety of theories. Psychoanalytic approaches suggest that emotions that couldn’t be consciously dealt with by Holocaust survivors themselves have been passed down to their children. Sociological theories focus on the connection between survivors’ beliefs and fears and their child-rearing practices. Other researchers have looked to the family unit as a whole to ascertain the impact of the Holocaust survivors’ experiences on their children. They found, for example, that in tightly knit survivor families, attempts by children to establish boundaries are often viewed as a threat to the family’s unity.

Finally, some researchers have proposed that memories of fear can actually be carried across generations through biochemistry. Children of severely traumatized Holocaust survivors have been found to have lower than average levels of the stress hormone cortisol, just like their traumatized parents. They also have been found to be more likely than average to suffer from posttraumatic stress disorder when exposed to a traumatic event, and more likely to view a non-life-threatening event, such as illness or separation from a loved one, as traumatic. This biological approach helps explain why children growing up in the same household, but with different combinations of genes, could be affected differently by a parent’s trauma—why I was more fearful of leaving home than my sister, why my daughter was more fearful of separation than my son. Hopefully, light shed on stories like ours will further encourage researchers to find new ways to mitigate the most harmful effects of intergenerational transmission of traumatization.

FOR MY MOTHER, at seventy years old, completing this book was bittersweet. Just after she had stoically finished taking me through her life, barely flinching at the most intimate, disturbing details, she plunged into a deep depression. I was left wondering if this project had been a mistake. Thankfully, my mother recovered, and her optimism and hunger for adventure returned. She reminded me that this memoir would help others better understand the Holocaust and its impact, and hopefully would also raise awareness as to the potential long-range complications resulting from other tragedies taking place today, around the world. This book was written with the hope that trauma survivors, their children and grandchildren—as well as others facing less dramatic challenges—might find inspiration in my mother’s courageous story.

Last summer, I agreed to teach a course on the Holocaust at my son Gabriel’s high school. One of the teachers at the school, a friend who had grown up in Sri Lanka, came to our house for dinner before the semester began. Between margaritas and slices of homemade pizza, he casually asked me, in his perfect English accent, if I knew the Latin root of the word holocaust. Some of my students will be in your course, and they’ll quiz you on this right off the bat, he explained.

I searched my memory. In the past decade I had read scores of books and viewed countless documentaries on the Holocaust. I could chronicle the history of anti-Semitism over the past two thousand years, trace the rise and fall of the Third Reich, and expound upon the limits of democratic governments around the world to act morally. I was certain I had come across the origins of the word along the way, but it escaped me. If I confessed ignorance, my erudite Sri Lankan friend, who had left behind a successful investment banking career, would be convinced that his Oxford education was superior to my American one. For the sake of the team, I took a guess. I deduced that holo sounded like whole, and that caust had to do with destruction.

Something like total destruction? I asked.

Close.

Yes, I thought.

But not quite. He told me that holocaust, in Latin, means burned offerings. It stems from the Greek words holo (which, as I had guessed, did mean whole) and caust (burned). In ancient times, the priests of the Hebrew Temple in Jerusalem would offer animal sacrifices to God. Holocaustum referred to those offerings that were burned in their entirety at the altar. Centuries later in the United States, the word holocaust became synonymous with the destruction of European Jews by the Germans.

Thinking about that ancient definition, I realized it was not an entirely accurate description of what took place during World War II. The fire of hate that the Nazis lit did not consume everything. The earth was scorched, but from the blackened ground new seeds sprouted. Their genes had been affected by the intensity of the heat, but grow they did, and thrive they would, as my mother would put it, bending toward the sun.

This book is for those whose hopes have been dashed, or burned beyond recognition. It is for those who may have been born too late to witness the traumatic events that shaped their current experience. And it is for those who are interested in exploring the blurry lines between good and evil, hope and despair, and mothers and daughters. It is my deepest hope to provide you with evidence that despite the depth of pain and horror we may experience, the will of the human spirit is irrepressible, and the blessings of life, of a new day in the sun, will ultimately prevail.

part i

In Mom’s Voice

(1937–1960)

1 Childhood, Interrupted

I was four years old, in 1941, when I saw my first airplane. On a peaceful, sunny day when the sky was clear blue with cotton-puff clouds, I was flying a kite in our wheat fields while my father gardened. Hearing a noise from up above getting louder, I cranked my neck to look up. I couldn’t take my eyes off the object floating by.

What is that? What a strange-looking bird.

It’s a machine that can fly, my father said.

How does it stay up there? I asked.

I’m not sure. It’s called an airplane, and it carries people to faraway places.

I was overwhelmed by feelings of joy and freedom. The world was so full of promise.

My home, in Poland’s southeast region, was part of a small village called Urzejowice (oo-je-VEET-sih). The house itself was painted a sunny yellow with white trim and surrounded by a white picket fence. Our front yard, brimming with plum trees, sunflowers, and sweet pea vines, seemed like a paradise to me. Poland’s winters were harsh, but once spring came, my sister and I loved playing outside in the garden, waiting for our father to return from work. We made houses and pies out of mud, improvised games like tag, and waved to neighbors passing by.

How old is she again, Sara? I whispered to my sister one day, as our elderly neighbor floated by on a gurney carried by two of her sons.

She’s one hundred and two, Sara said. My five-year-old sister was wholesome looking, with a heart-shaped face, dark, deep-set eyes, and straight brown hair.

Wow! That’s so old.

Tatu says we should all live that long, she said. Our father’s name was Isaac, but we called him Tatu, which meant daddy in Polish.

Tatu wants us to be old like that? I asked.

Ruchel, it’s an honor to grow that old. Losing patience with me, Sara looked out into the distance. There he is! she shrieked.

That’s not fair. You always get to see him first, I said.

I’m a year older. I can see farther than you.

Now I, too, saw my father. He was walking proudly, with his shoulders back and his head held high. He and my grandfather and uncles were in business together, selling groceries, clothing, and cows. They bought cows. from gentiles and sold them to Jewish slaughterhouses in the big cities, where they would be butchered for kosher meat. As usual, my father was impeccably dressed, in a dark suit and maroon tie that accentuated his straight white teeth and wavy black hair. He was carrying a package wrapped in brown paper. Often, he returned from business trips bearing wonderful surprises. Sara and I raced down the path, vying to be the first to fly into his arms.

Hi, children, my father said. As his eyes rested on us, they began to dance, and crinkled at the edges. He tucked the package inside his suit jacket and lifted us into the air one at a time. What are you up to?

We’re waiting for you, Tatu, I said.

Where are your mother and brother?

They’re in the kitchen, and Mama is cooking soup, Sara said. Is that a present for us? she added as we approached the front door, pointing to the bulge protruding from my father’s jacket.

Let’s see when we get inside, he replied. He always seemed to lead the way. He was the peacock in our home, and the ultimate authority.

Leah and Isaac Gamss with Ruchel Gamss (baby) and Sara Gamss. Poland, 1937.

In the kitchen, my father greeted my mother, Leah, with a kiss and hug. Then he took my two-year-old brother, Nachum, and hoisted him into the air. Nachum squealed with delight. He had pale, Dresden-like skin, pitch-black eyes, and brownish gold hair.

Now can we open the surprise, Tatu? I said.

He handed me the package. My sister and I tore it open, revealing yellow silk embroidered fabric that looked like rays of sunshine dancing in our arms. I held it up for my mother to see.

It’s exquisite, she said.

Can we sew dresses from this? Sara asked. Or is it too fancy to cut up?

We can make special dresses for Shabbos, my mother said. She was sensitive and kind, and she adored my father. He loved her, too. Isaac Gamss and Leah Weltz had grown up in the same village, and their marriage, in 1935, had been arranged by a matchmaker. He was thirty-two, and she a few years younger.

My mother was attractive and unusual looking, with dark, deep-set eyes, full eyebrows, a patrician nose, long, curly dark brown hair, and beautiful skin. At five foot seven, she was tall for her day. Still, my father was always the bigger, more outgoing personality. The distinguished suit he was wearing that afternoon, alongside my mother’s plain cotton housedress and apron, seemed to accentuate the contrast.

Sometimes my mother would cry for no apparent reason. Her own mother had died when she was a young girl. I often wondered whether she was still grieving over that long-ago separation. Or perhaps she was just tired from working so hard. In addition to cooking and caring for three young children, cleaning our home, and washing our clothes in the nearby river, she also helped my father pick fruits and vegetables and tend to our livestock in fields that we leased from a man named Kapetsky, the aristocrat in town. I liked to help milk the cows, although someone first had to lift me onto the milking stool. The only time I saw my mother sitting down during the day was when she shelled peas or snapped green beans.

Back in the kitchen that afternoon, my father had one more surprise. From inside his suit jacket he pulled out another package. With a twinkle in his eye he said, Hopefully, these will look nice with the dresses.

My sister and I were so excited. We ripped open the brown wrapping, pulling out two pairs of cream-colored patent leather shoes. Sara grinned from ear to ear. When she smiled, her face lit up. Then she handed me the smaller pair.

They’re so beautiful. I sat on the floor to push my bare feet into them.

Nachum, what are you doing? I heard my mother ask. I looked over to see my brother pulling apart the brown wrapping paper and scattering pieces all around.

Playing, my brother said.

Sara and I burst out laughing. My father did, too.

A few days later, the yellow fabric had been transformed into two holiday dresses, by whom I’m not certain. Maybe my maternal stepgrandmother, Simma, who lived next door with Grandpa Nuchem, had sewn them. I used to watch her knit while I threw balls of yarn to her cat. Sometimes she also made me rag dolls out of muslin, with painted faces.

Our home formed the backbone of our spiritual, cozy world. Affixed to the right front doorjamb was a mezuzah—a small, oblong container with verses from the Torah inside—which we kissed whenever we passed through. Also, before bedtime, we said a special prayer and planted a kiss on the mezuzah in the master bedroom. I fell asleep secure in the knowledge that God was watching over us.

In our village, although the Jews worked very hard, they were generally looked down upon by the Christian Poles. On Shabbos, however, the Jews elevated themselves. Shabbos was the highlight of the week for our family. From Friday afternoon to Saturday night, normal life was put on hold. My mother spent Thursdays and Fridays cleaning and cooking in preparation. Dreamy scents of chickens stewing, soup boiling, and cakes baking filled me with a sense of peace and well-being.

The most heavenly aroma was that of challah baking in the oven. My sister and I would stand by our mother’s side, enrapt, as she kneaded the dough, formed it into loaves, and slid the loaves into the oven. When they were ready, my mother would announce, Girls, come and have a nibble. Sara and I would scurry back across the kitchen, past the red enamel pots used for milk products to one side and the blue pots, for cooking meat, to the other. My mother would tear off a piece of soft, piping-hot bread from the tiny extra loaf she baked just for us. I would close my eyes and pop a morsel into my mouth. It practically melted on my tongue. I can’t manage to remember ever being kissed or hugged by my mother, although I’m sure that I was, but I do remember feeling her warmth and love whenever her challah was baking.

By sundown each Friday, our home looked beautiful. The wooden table in the kitchen was covered with a white cloth and set with sparkling china and colorful crystal. One Friday, just before Shabbos began, Sara and I were twirling around in our beautiful, newly created yellow dresses when there was a knock at the door. Before my mother answered it, she leaned down and said, Ruchaleh, bring the package.

I reached up to the kitchen counter, grasped a container of food, and brought it to her. She was standing in the doorway, dressed elegantly in a bright silk blouse, a black skirt, and a pearl necklace, as she greeted a Jewish man in ragged clothing.

Good Shabbos, my mother said.

Good Shabbos. Do you have any food to spare, or a few zlotys?

We have food, I interjected, pointing to the package in my mother’s hands.

God bless you, he said.

When the man left, my mother looked at me. Where’s your smile, Ruchaleh? You should feel good. Did you know that charity elevates you in heaven?

Mushe, that man makes me sad. Why doesn’t he have his own food?

He is an orphan. Square meals do not come so easily for some people.

My mother led me back to the kitchen table, where my father and sister were waiting. Nachum, my young brother, was already asleep in my parents’ room. Shabbos could not begin until sundown, which meant that in the spring and summer months it began quite late. My mother lit candles, one for each member of our family, and said a prayer. Then she sat beside my father on the wooden bench, across from Sara and me. We were expected to listen politely to the adult conversation, and only to speak when granted permission. Over dessert, however, we joined in to sing traditional songs and chant melodies thanking God for our blessings. Everything felt serene and holy.

Our home was newly built, and another bedroom was still being added on for Sara and me. Until that was completed, we shared our parents’ bedroom, except on very cold nights, when we slept near the stove in the kitchen. My parents’ bedroom was decorated with a huge, gleaming wood armoire, a crib for Nachum, and gorgeous lace curtains hanging from copper rods. A set of exquisite blue ceramic birds sat near a crystal clock upon one of the nightstands. On Saturday mornings I would open my eyes at the first sign of light streaming through the windowpanes and jump right into my parents’ bed, giggling. Lounging like this was reserved for holidays, and the Sabbath.

My paternal grandparents, Aharon and Paya Neshe, lived a few miles away in the town of Przeworsk (shev-orsk), along with nine of their twelve children. They seemed like a wonderful couple with a lot of love. My father was their firstborn. Since Grandpa Aharon had a Torah, we walked to his home on Shabbos mornings so that my father could pray there with the other males in the family.

What was that? my sister asked, whenever she heard any noise along the way.

It’s not a dog. Don’t worry, I remember saying. Ever since a dog chased us one morning, Sara had been wary of unexpected noises.

My grandparents’ white clapboard home sat atop a grassy hill, surrounded by wildflowers. As we climbed up the knoll and past the brick well out in front, we anticipated the warm greeting we would receive from our grandmother, Paya Neshe. She was revered in our family, and always seemed to be doing good deeds for needy people.

"Good Shabbos, lalkales [dollies]," she would say when she opened the door to greet us. She was plump, and wore dark, loose-fitting dresses accessorized with jewelry. Her wig, which traditional Jewish women of her generation wore, was dark and curly.

Good Shabbos, Bubbe, we would respond, using the Yiddish term for Grandma, pronounced bub-bee. Come. Come into the kitchen, she always urged. I baked treats for you.

On the way we would walk through a large, beautiful room with shiny, golden wood floors and a harp off to one corner. There, my father joined Grandpa Aharon and my eight uncles in a semicircle. When they were praying, I wasn’t allowed to say a word. Grandpa Aharon, in his early sixties, was always easy to spot. He sported a black suit and white shirt like his sons, but he also wore a big velvet hat, a mustache, a beard, and payis (side locks). My father and his brothers, eager to fit into the gentile world, dressed less traditionally.

On Saturday afternoons, our extended family often took a stroll in the town square, passing by the small grocery store, the pharmacy, the Catholic church, and a tiny candy store owned by one of my father’s sisters, Chaya Shaindl, and her husband. One Saturday, I held my aunt’s hand as we walked past her shop.

The Gamss Family. Clockwise from top left, Tsivia, Isaac (Rita’s father), Chaya Shaindl*, Paya Neshe (Rita’s paternal grandmother), Shia Moshe*, Aharon* (Rita’s paternal grandfather), Max, Yosel*. Second row from left, Blima* holding Norman, Ruchel (Rita’s great-grandmother/Paya Neshe’s mother), Leibish*, Benny, and Henry. *Perished in the Holocaust

Can we go inside for just a few minutes? I asked.

Not on Shabbos, she said, and smiled. But I have an idea. Why don’t you tell me what your favorite candy is, and I’ll bring you a piece during the week.

I like picking them myself, I protested. I loved going into her shop, reaching a serving spoon into the glass bowls, and pulling out turquoise rock candy and the colorful bonbons covered in beautiful, bright wrapping.

In the summer, we played outside until supper was ready. Then our mother would call us in. "Kim en dem hois, Sara and Ruchel."

When we were called to dinner, it meant now. There were a lot of do’s and don’ts in our household, and my parents were not afraid to reprimand me when they needed to. Once, I remember, when our kitchen was painted, one of the wet white walls looked so delicious that I walked up and licked it. Immediately, my tongue was afire. Ow! I screamed.

That paint can make you very sick. Don’t ever do that again! my father yelled. He could be short-tempered at times.

I won’t. I promise, I vowed, running from the room in tears.

I felt very secure with these rules. Over warm candlelit suppers, my parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles had lively conversations about business and family. I listened, taking everything in. Afterward, we gathered around the fireside (priperchik in Yiddish), listening to stories and sipping tea, with sugar cubes in our mouths. The adults often spiced their tea with homemade liqueur. "It helps warm our kishkes [stomachs]," my father would say. On some evenings my parents made up their own stories, and other nights they read to us from books. Even though we lived in a small village, my parents wanted us to be well educated.

This is one of my favorites, my father would often say, before he began a story.

"Please don’t

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The Holocaust has many stories and I am determined to read as many as I can. Each story is different because the situation was different for those experienced it and the survivors. We should fight with all our heart and soul to prevent this ever happening again. Bending Toward The Sun is written by Leslie Gilbert-Lurie and her mother Rita Lurie. Rita was just a five year old when the situation in rural Poland became intolerable. Rita's father was taken in for questioning and returned home badly beaten. Issac Gamss's father knew that they should not go willingly to to the train station as ordered. They split up so that there may be a chance that some of the large extended family might survive.They had planned to hide in the forests but it grew too cold and had to find some kind of shelter. A portion of the large family including Rita Lurie, begged for temporary shelter in a narrow attic of a barn.This book is divided into three parts, Rita's story, her daughter and the third together. Instead of shelter for a short time. Rita, her family and some other close relatives lived in the attic for two full years before it was safe to come out. The first part is the most vivid. The cold in the winter, barely any privacy, sporadic bits of food and water and also two family tragedies. Rita's small brother died and then her mother.The writing give the details of the family's daily life in the attic and the experiences of Rita. Rita will never be free of that part of her life. The book shows how her experiences of never being sage, losing her little brother and her mother and her adulthood and her daughter. The emotional scars of the Holocaust run far deeper than the physical one. The mother-daughter story is well detailed and makes you consider how the emotional scars effect the next generation of survivors. This story was extremely painful for the authors to write but it is an important one that we need to read. We need to remember, understand and be grateful for this survivor's story.

Rating: 5

Bending towards the sun : A mother and daughter memoir By Leslie Gilbert-Lurie and Rita Lurie
(Scribd).
The time Is world war 2 and setting is Poland. Forced to flee for their lives, Rita went into hiding with 14 of her family members in a crowded attic. They had to stay quiet and move as little as possible while the farmer downstairs did his best to keep them alive. They lived in these conditions five years.
At the end of the war, Rita and her family move several times before settling in the United States. As is often the case, a part of them in their psyche remained in that attic.
This book takes you through the life of Rita and the challenges and nightmares not only she lives with but how it affected her children and even her grandchildren.
Its a very insightful book , highly recommend

Rating: 5

This has to be one of the most unique memoirs I have ever read. It's a joint effort between Leslie Gilbert-Lurie and her mom, Holocaust survivor, Rita Lurie. What drew me toward Bending Toward the Sun is the detail that Mrs. Gilbert-Lurie in particular describes the dynamic of her family and the effect the Holocaust continues to have on them. The underlying theme of this memoir is whether grief and fear could be transferred from generation to generation. If that is true, I think it's safe to say that strength and courage is transferable too.Mrs. Lurie is truly inspiring. She is a survivor in every sense of the word. She is a woman who never had a childhood, who suffered such shocking loss at such a young age, yet learned to live a life full of joy. She took what she was given and made the best of it. She lived. I enjoyed reading both her account of her time during the war and also her daughter's memories of her. She was so brutally honest with herself at times, it was heartbreaking to read. She moved me to tears during her bouts of depression. I wanted to jump into the pages, lay down next her, cry into the pillow with her and comfort her in the way she needed but wouldn't allow anyone to give her. Mrs. Gilbert-Lurie did justice to her family. I have been fascinated by World War II for some time now however this is the first time I read a memoir from a Holocaust survivors point of view. She did a fantastic job of writing in a way that pity for Gamss family is the farthest thing from my mind. I was honored to get to know a family who did everything in their power to protect each other, to care for each other. This family did everything it took to survive and instill that will to survive in them all.My favorite part came towards the end of Bending Toward the Sun during an assembly held by Mrs. Lurie to her grandson Gabe's school. "The main message she tried to communicate was that while life was rarely perfect, individuals had the strength inside to overcome setbacks, to love instead of hate, and to influence others to be better human beings...(she) urged the students not to go along with what they knew was wrong, mean or destructive to themselves or others."And that is how you survive.

Rating: 4

I received this book from FSB Media in exchange for my review.I normally try to steer clear of historical recounts, but when I read the summary for Bending Toward the Sun on the FSB Media website, it intrigued me. To actually read about what occurred to an actual survivor of a terrible historical event and how it affected her future generations was something I couldn't pass up ... and I'm glad I didn't.We've all heard of the story of Anne Frank when we were in school. While terrifying, her story has lost its affect on me. This book has restored my awe of the horrific events of the Holocaust. To live through a time where a leader as powerfully evil as Hitler is beyond my imagination. Although anything is possible and something like that COULD happen again ... it's hard to picture it actually taking place.Reading the accounts of three generations of women who are either directly or inadvertently affected by the Holocaust has been enlightening. Even though Leslie and her daughter, Mikaela, were not alive during the time of the Holocaust, they have been genetically disposed to the fear with which Rita now lives her life. I began to wonder ... "How many generations is it going to take until an offspring is born in their family without a fear of life?"Yes, bad things happen to good people. Yes, there are evil people who will use others' differences for their own personal selfish gain. While I understand the fear Rita has acquired concerning living, I don't understand how a person could let that fear control them every day. My not understanding undoubtedly lies in the fact that I've not lived through a horrific event parallel to the Holocaust. Or, in the fact that my immediate family has never lived through such an event.In essence, this book has opened my eyes and given me a deeper look into and a deeper understanding of the Holocaust victims. It has also reaffirmed my belief that we should never judge a person by how they look on the outside. We should treat EVERYONE, no matter the race, color or religion, with respect because we never know what they've been through or what they're currently going through.

Rating: 4

This book has essentially three parts plus one smaller one. The first part is told in Rita's voice. She tells of her childhood in Poland, a country that was largely populated by Jews. Her village was virtually unaffected by the Nazi invasion for the first couple of years. When the S.S. army arrived in approximately 1942, everything changed. As a very young child she and her family stay in an attic for two years. As previously mentioned, Rita witnesses the death of her brother and mother. She is deeply affected by these deaths.In 1944, when the Russians first conquered Poland, the families emerged from the attic and went from one Displaced Persons camp to another. Isaac, her father, remarries and they immigrate to the U.S. The second section of the book (according to me) is Rita's growing up years. The family lived in New York then moved to Chicago where she eventually met Frank, her husband. They begin their family life in southern California where they add two daughters and a son to the mix. Their children grow and Leslie, the main author comes of age.Section 3 is Leslie's voice. She describes her mother's behavior and her own reaction to her mother. Both women are stunningly honest. A major theme throughout the book is that Rita never had a childhood and was never nurtured. It seemed that she sought nurturing from inappropriate sources, especially her oldest daughter.*Psychological commentary: (I mean, really, you expected it, didn't you?) Given that Rita's most traumatic experiences occurred when she was between the ages of 5 and 8, every so often her interactions with others seem childish and disproportionately immature. It makes sense, however, that when Rita was feeling stress in her interpersonal relationships, that she would revert to the child who still longed to be nurtured. The scared, lonely little girl in the attic. Carry on.It is clear that Rita is a survivor yet she does not have her own identity. She is vicariously living through her children. Leslie discovers the term "enmeshed" in her adulthood. Honestly, there were many times during this part of the book that I couldn't remember which was the parent and which was the child. Leslie finds that her childhood habit of collecting accomplishments carry over into adulthood. She is the overachiever who seems afraid to have any down time.Meanwhile, Leslie is suffering from generalized anxiety. Sorry about that. I forgot to warn you that I had another psychological commentary. Leslie also takes a trip to Poland where she is background for a cousin's documentary. There she meets the woman who kept the secret of the Jews in her attic, walked through her mother's old house, and became more keenly aware of what her mother experienced. She also discovers that children of the Holocaust survivors tend to be the hyper-achievers. They also tend to carry the grief of their parents on their own shoulders and feel responsible for their parents' happiness.Leslie eventually marries and has children. It is only when her own daughter suffers from extreme separation anxiety that Leslie sees the connection. Leslie tracks down all of her mother's living relatives who offer new insights regarding her grandmother who died and the uncle preceded her. She also tracks down her mother's stepmother who paints a significantly different picture of their relationship.This is a stunning undertaking. I found the honesty in which the book is written to be painful and genuine. It is also striking to see the contrast between the perception of a child and the perception of those who were there and remembered things differently. Perception is reality.The fourth little section is written by Leslie's daughter who is processing the burden she had cast about her shoulders without her knowledge. It is also discovered, at this time, that Leslie is still gathering her accomplishments by being on important committees. When she realizes what she is doing, she gives up her shield and concentrates on being a mother.Leslie is able to convey facts and feelings without judgment. She shares herself openly for the reader, as does her mother, and she assigns her own meaning when crucial to the experience. Much of the time, however, Leslie is objective and open to interpretation.An amazing journey.

Rating: 5

If the sins of the father are visited upon the son, then are the sorrows of the mother to be carried on by the daughter? Reading Bending Toward The Sun by Leslie Gilbert-Lurie has made me ponder this. Bending Toward The Sun starts out with the narration of Rita, Leslie's mother. Rita and some of her family members survived the Holocaust by hiding in the attic of a family friend. Rita's tale is fascinating, I can't help but ache for her. To be honest, I did cry a bit while reading her story. Eventually Leslie takes up the narration, and the rest of the memoir is about how Rita's Holocaust survivor status has affected her life. For instance, Leslie experience severe separation anxiety growing up. She also felt pressured to become an overachiever.I think the writing could have been a bit better, but I realize that Lurie isn't a writer. She's a television executive/consultant. I guess I don't expect the narrative to be as good as that of someone who writes for a living. Interspersed throughout the book were photographs which I felt would have been less awkward if there had been some pages in the middle for them, or an appendix.Reading Bending Toward The Sun has made me think about how some may perceive the Holocaust. Obviously, we all have learned about the horrors during the time period. What about after? I mean, do we picture those who have lived through hell as ambling back home and living the same life as before. I suppose I make that mistake from time to time. Rather, surviving the Holocaust had a lasting mental effect on Rita Lurie, who battled depression her whole life. It sucks that something like this robbed someone of something so precious, childhood. I understand Rita wanted to give her children the best possible childhood, but it seems her neurosis also affected her children. After finishing this book, I wouldn't mind reading more about the children of Holocaust survivors, as it will help to expand my understanding of the impact of such a tragedy.

Rating: 4

A beautiful memoir, written by Leslie Gilbert- Lurie. The first part of the story is about Rita and her family. The Gamss family, 14 people, hid from the Nazi's in the attic of a farmers house. During this time, they used buckets for toilets, dirty water had to be used to wash 14 people, potato soup was all they had to eat, 1 time a day and sometimes not every day.Ritas baby brother died during this time and her mother died shortly after. Two years they hid in the attic.This story is not just about the horrors and anguish of the holocaust, its about the depression and the fears and how it affected not only Rita and her family but her children and her childrens children.The last part of the book is told by Leslie and how she always had to be with her mother for fear of something bad happening to her.I highly recommend this book.

Rating: 5

Bending Toward the Sun is an emotionally riveting and beautifully written Holocaust memoir. The first section of the book, Rita's story of hiding - living in deplorable conditions, watching as beloved members of her family died - is truly horrifying and distressing. Rita's experiences as a young girl shaped her in a profound way, and the repercussions of the extreme suffering she endured and witnessed, reverberated through the years, touching the lives of not only her children, but also her grandchildren. In the next section of the book, Rita's daughter Leslie takes center stage, laying the intimacies of her life bare to the reader in order to describe the way a legacy of fear and anxiety can be passed on from generation to generation like a faulty gene. The trauma that Rita endured during WWII and in the years following the war, wounded her psyche and handicapped her emotionally. What is particularly moving about Bending Toward the Sun, is that this family survived and prospered, with an impressive courage that is truly awe-inspiring.I very much enjoyed the concept of Bending Toward the Sun. I cannot remember ever reading a mother/daughter memoir before this time. Although it is heartbreaking in it's emotional intensity, it was essential to the healing process of this family that their story be told. The thing that I will take away from reading this exceptional memoir, is the strength and fortitude of these amazing women. I highly recommend Bending Toward the Sun to lovers of memoirs/biographies/autobiographies, as well as people interested in the history of WWII and the Holocaust.

Rating: 4

Bending Toward The Sun tells the true story of Rita Lurie who survived the Nazi occupation of Poland in WWII by hiding in a farmhouse attic for approximately two years. While cramped up in the cold dark attic with fourteen other family members, the young Rita learned to suppress all her needs; both physical and emotional. Among these terrible circumstances, Rita's mother and younger brother died. When Poland was liberated and Rita and her family were freed, their troubles were far from over. They lived in many refugee camps while waiting to emigrate to a new country and begin afresh. They ended up being granted entrance to America where Rita was thrust into a new life that included a difficult step-mother as well as adjusting to life in a foreign place.The second part of this memoir is told from Rita's daughter Leslie's perspective. While Leslie was blessed with the security of growing up in America, the trauma that Rita had experienced as a young girl continued to have an effect upon the next generation. Due to Rita's early loss of her mother, a legacy of separation anxiety was passed down to her daughter and granddaughter. It is this generational effect of the original trauma that inspired Leslie to examine her mother's story and see if she could make sense of the way it had touched her own and her daughter's life. Leslie is a very accomplished woman but she grew up with a strong sense of guilt and concern for her mother. She took on a role of protecting her mother from any emotional upset. Leslie's description of the family dynamics gives the reader a greater understanding of how one tragic event can become an integral part of the lives that are touched by it either directly or indirectly.Bending Toward The Sun is a well written and engaging memoir that tells an amazing story. The strong characters and important themes made this a book that was well worth reading. It is a testament to Rita's strength of character that she managed to lead a full life after all she went through. She devoted herself to giving love and protection to her children and grandchildren. She had an endless ability to nurture her loved ones despite her own emotional deprivation. Though Rita was determined to overcome her troubles, she still had very serious bouts of depression at various periods of her life. It was heart-breaking to read about her depression soon before her 70th birthday. Rita was five when she went to the attic but even at age 70 she was still experiencing the devastating effects of the Holocaust. Throughout the memoir there is not just a sense of loss and tragedy, but also of hope and inspiration. In the pages of Bending Toward The Sun, Rita and her family are celebrated as survivors and inspirations for all.

Rating: 4

Bending Toward the Sun is a mother and daughter memoir by Leslie Gilbert-Lurie and her mother, Rita Lurie. It covers both of their lives and how the Holocaust has made such a significant impact on them and on their future generation. The first part features Rita's story, from hiding in a cramped attic with her family during the War to her years in America struggling with her past and growing up without a real mother. The second part of the book, covers Leslie's life, who tries very hard to please her mother, but at the same time, tries to understand what her mother went through and realizes that Rita's painful past has somehow affected the outlook on life to Leslie, and also onto Leslie's daughter Mikaela. I thought it was an excellent memoir. Not only do you get to read the stories of two very strong willed women but there's a clear concise narration to it that actually makes the memoir very interesting and before you knew it, you were already at the end. It was a very interesting look into their lives and how the Holocaust had made such an impact on their daily routines, how they thought, how they acted, and how strongly attached they were as a family unit. I especially liked Rita's strength and her determination to be a very good mother to her children. Considering since she never really had a mother to begin with, she made an extreme effort to be loving and to give her children the childhood she never had when she was young. I thought it was very admirable and a very strong trait in her. Leslie also follows in her footsteps and tries to become a very good mother, but also it seems she has to please her mother as well, which can become extremely difficult as you see Leslie trying to struggle with it. The book shows how slow psychological healing and with facing the past and its' ghosts, it could go a long way into healing some wounds that have never had the chance of healing properly. I felt a lot for Rita, who really had no one to turn to, and to confide in, while she was in her teenage years. It truly seemed as if she was really alone in the world but again, as I said, it's very admiring how she managed to be determined to pick herself up on her feet to live her life the way she wants. Although I really had no love for Clara even though she survived through a lot of pain and misery I can't help but dislike her for her treatment towards Rita. It certainly didn't help Rita much during her childhood. Towards the end however, I felt ambivalent towards her especially when she says her point of view of things. It was hard to believe who was telling the truth or if Rita had selective memory.I have to admit, this book actually drove me to tears at the end. The letter Leslie and her sister writes to their Grandmother is very touching and although they never had a chance to meet her, is filled with love and provides some sort of closure like this book provides closure to their mother.Overall a wonderful touching memoir about the impact the Holocaust has on its' victims and their children.

Rating: 5

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Bending Toward the Sun: A Mother and Daughter Memoir

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Bending Toward the Sun: A Mother and Daughter Memoir

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