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COMMENT

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Second Generation

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To the children of survivors, the
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SONIA PILCER

Special to The Jewish News

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don't ever remember not
knowing. The word Holo-
caust was not used in our
home. "During the war" was
how the stories began. Every-
one told them. In lieu of liv-
ing family, my parents be-
longed to a large network of
Polish Jews. All were sur-
vivors. The women played
canasta and the men, poker.
As they tossed bright plastic
chips and picked up cards,
blue numbers flashing on the
insides of their arms, the
stories multiplied.
"Pish posh. I knew Genia in
the laager when she wasn't
such a fancy lady. She clean-
ed toilets with the rest of us."
"If Yacob hadn't given me
his piece of bread, I wouldn't
be here. Lucky me, I was dealt
two red threes!"
"I wouldn't give Uzek a
broken cent. Now he's an im-
portant man in B'nai B'rith.
During the war, he had a big
mouth?'
The delivery was usually
offhand. Lineups, beatings,
starvation were ,discussed as
casually as yesterday's
weather. Their voices rose
with excitement as they re-
galed one another with tales
of daredevil escapes, morsels
of wartime gossip, teasing
each other's memories as at a
college reunion. After all,
most of them had been in
their teens when the war
broke out. "You remember
Yola. She was the not-bad-
looking one with crooked
teeth, who went with the Ger-
man. He gave her crabs."
I understood Polish so none
of it escaped me. None of the
innuendos. And I knew the
cast of characters from
borscht belt summers spent
in bungalow colonies. The
survivors and children vaca-
tioned en masse, sometimes
50 families or more, at places
with names like Kozy Kot-
tages or Blue Paradise,
greener pastures, where they
organized theme parties,
beauty pageants, and mock
weddings in which the bride
wore white, as few of them
ever did — usually played by
the most hirsute man among
them. I listened for hours as
I changed Pier Angeli's
cutout ensembles.
Few outsiders understand
the survivor sensibility. It is
profoundly and terrifyingly
cynical about human nature.

Yet funny. But the humor is
definitely dark. "The streets
of Piotrkow resembled Holly-
wood. You never saw so many
stars." They had names for
the Germans. My mother
referred to the two women
guards who tormented her as
Pietruszka, "parsley," and
Marchevka, "carrot," because
of her hideous red hair. She
imitated their graceless walk
and cursed that they should
die of cholera. When I was
young, I took it for granted. I
knew we weren't Father
Knows Best. Americans, the
survivors say, what do they
know of life? But I thought all
Jewish families were like
mine.
I am named Sonia Hanna,
after both of my parents'
murdered mothers. I spent
my first year with hundreds

"You remember
Yola. She was the
not-bad-looking
one with crooked
teeth, who went
with the German.

of Jewish refugees, orphans of
large families and communi-
ties, in a displaced-persons
camp in Landsberg, Germany.
Polish and Yiddish swelled
the air. America! Everyone
chanted the magic word of
passage. The children sat
quiet as baggage.
The Displaced Persons Act
of 1950 raised the ceiling for
Jewish refugees from 205,000
to 341,000. We arrived via the
ship General Hersey on Rosh
Hashanah, our New Year. The
Hebrew Immigrant Aid Soci-
ety found us a room at the St.
Marks Hotel, near its offices
on Lafayette Street. The
Rescue Information Bulletin
featured a photograph of two
women from Czestochowa,
with the caption: "New land,
new tastes — these H.I.A.S.
protegees eat their first ice
cream cones."
My parents learned to
speak English; my father got
a job in a factory, and my
mother, a large apartment in
Brooklyn, which she kept
spotless. They made new lives
for themselves, had babies
and bankbooks, covered
couches in clear plastic.
I forgot my Polish. I was an
American girl with no accent.
I had friends, my own life,
which I longed to grow into