Sunday, June 14, 2009
The first time I entered the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum, I remember losing it . . . all because of a pile of shoes. The stories didn’t get to me. The pictures didn’t get to me. I was steeled for those. It was that innocent pile of shoes. An image worth well more than a thousand words. There are so many things I remember, that I must remember, but I will not remember the murderer. He is one of many. I will remember his hate. The person I will remember is Stephen Tyrone Johns because he reminds me of someone whose name I never learned.
My mother was born in Poland a few weeks before the Germans invaded. It was because of her that my grandparents fled almost 200 miles on foot to Russia. They left after the trains were shut to Jews and after all the bank accounts and businesses were stolen, but before the Lodz Ghetto was locked down.
Along the way, they were often refused aid. People knew who you were if you were running. Germans controlled the entire country by then, and few people would take risks. So, hungry and desperate and with a baby months old, they soldiered on.
By luck, they found a farmer who agreed to give them a ride in his cart. They were buried under hay, and for two scratchy days they traveled safely.
