Tag Archive | Holocaust

Detroit’s oldest Holocaust Survivor, 101, Shares Story For Future generations

Photo Credit: Jerry Zdynsky

It really is eerie. 

As the unrest and violence continues in the Ukraine, once again, Jews are the scapegoats caught in the crossfire. 

Last week, though it was a “prank” by pro-Russian supporters in the Ukraine, Jews were handed out leaflets that they must register their names and property holdings with the government. 

Last week, just as this week, a synagogue in the Ukraine was firebombed. Not just vandalized. Firebombed. 

This is why “Never Forget” must not just be uttered or whispered in a prayer but be a call to action. 

I am sure that Henry Upfall would agree. Here is his story. 

In the weeks leading up to his 101st birthday on April 14, Henry Upfall was hoping to start a men’s poker night at Meer Apartments in West Bloomfield, where he lives. Just returning from spending the winter at his condominium in Florida, he missed his regular poker game at the clubhouse, and the ladies at Meer won’t deal the men into their game.

According to his devoted daughter, Dina Pinsky of Bloomfield Hills, Upfall believes in living in the present by making new friends and maintaining close family ties. Pinsky adorns his apartment with plenty of family photos of Upfall’s late wife, Dora, their children, six grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren.

His daughter said living in the present — loving life, surrounding themselves with family, friends and many social gatherings — was the way her parents coped with the very dark past of surviving the Holocaust.

At 101, Upfall is Metro Detroit‘s oldest living Holocaust survivor. Like many children and grandchildren of Holocaust 

Like many second and third generation survivors, Pinsky is in a race against time  to preserve her loved one’s stories for the  coming generations.

“As a kid, my brother Yale and I remember  lots of laughter and joking around,”  Pinsky said. “We heard stories of Europe  in bits and pieces. We knew there were  subjects that were off-limits; we just didn’t  go there because it caused my parents too  much pain.”

Stephen Goldman, executive director at  the Holocaust Memorial Center (HMC) in  Farmington Hills, said that in the immediate  years after the Holocaust, many  parents were afraid to tell and children  were afraid to ask about the horrors of the  Holocaust. As time passed, more survivors  began to tell their stories. They must be  told and recorded to preserve their memory,  he said.  “As survivors age, it becomes more  urgent for us to preserve their stories,”  Goldman said.

“If we don’t capture their  memories now, they will be lost to the  ages.”

Upfall’s story, retold here, was pieced  together from a recent interview at his  apartment and a 2006 video testimony he  gave at the HMC. There, Upfall’s account,  along with 500 additional area survivors,  are recorded with attention to the most  accurate detail.

Henry Upfall was born Gedalye  Augustowski on April 14, 1913. As a child,  he grew up in a comfortable and “cosmopolitan”  household in Warsaw with his  mother, sister and maternal grandparents.  His parents divorced and his father left to  settle in Detroit in the 1920s.

He was an athletic teenager and an avid  boxer. For a time, he traveled from town to  town competing in boxing tournaments,  where he eventually suffered an injury to  his right eye causing permanent blindness  in it. When retelling even a few sentences  of his story, that eye swells shut under the  weight of its tears.

“We had good lives,” Upfall said. “We  were well dressed. My sister never left the  apartment without a fine hat on her head.”

In 1938, Upfall met his future wife, Dora  Rajf, through one of her six brothers. After  a year of courting, the two set a wedding  date for Sept. 6, 1939. Through the help  of their families, they purchased a small  building where they would work as a barber  and a beautician and live in the apartment upstairs.

Coming Of War

Then, in September of 1939, the Nazis  invaded Poland.

Upfall, like all other able-bodied young  Polish men, was ordered at age 26 to the  border at Bialystok in an attempt to thwart  the Nazi invasion.  Two months later, Upfall returned to  Warsaw and reunited with Dora.

In just  those short months away, Upfall recalls the  shock of seeing a change in Dora’s physical  state and the destruction in the city.

“I didn’t recognize her,” Upfall said. “In  only two months, her face was so drawn,  so black from the soot of the bombings.”

On Nov. 6, 1939, Upfall and Dora broke  the 7 p.m. curfew imposed on all Warsaw  Jews to sneak away to the rabbi’s study at  Nozyk Synagogue. There, with no guests  or witnesses, a rabbi married them in a  secret ceremony. An engagement photo  and a ketubah bearing the date and their  names, survives to this day, lovingly preserved  in a frame in Upfall’s apartment.

“There were just the rabbi, Dora and I,”  Upfall tearfully recalled.  The two fled that evening from Warsaw  and headed back to Bialystok, walking the  whole way at night, hiding by day in the  woods and in barns. Upfall still has painful  regrets about leaving his sister, grandparents  and mother. That next year, in the  fall of 1940, the Nazis ordered all Jews into  the Warsaw Ghetto.

“He just had no idea how bad things  were going to get,” Pinsky said.

After making it back to Bialystok,  he and Dora were arrested and sent to  Posolek, a Russian labor camp near the  town of Vologda in White Russia to work  harvesting trees in the forest.  Conditions were harsh. There was little  food and only straw to sleep on in the barracks.

Upfall, raised in an Orthodox home,  recalls feigning illness and fever with some  other men in the camp so they would not  have to work on Yom Kippur.  Though they were under the watchful  eye of Russian guards, somehow Henry  and Dora escaped through a passage in the  forest. After traveling, they were reunited  with Dora’s parents in Vitebsk in Belarus.

For a while, they lived in relative peace.  Henry worked as a barber and the couple  had a child, Yale, born in 1941.  Shortly after Yale was born, Upfall’s family  again uprooted as Soviet forces evacuated  civilians to Tashkent, capital of Uzbekistan.  Here Soviet authorities demanded that  civilians acquire Russian passports.  Refusing to get a passport because he knew  it meant he would be forced into the army,  Upfall was imprisoned.  Dora begged for his release under the  condition that he would  take a passport.

Sure  enough, within days of  accepting a Russian passport,  Upfall was drafted  into the army and put  onto a train headed for  the frontline of the war.

“I remember sitting  next to another Jewish  guy named Moskowitz,”  Upfall said. “In Yiddish,  he joked with me, ‘They  are sending us to the  slaughterhouse.’ So,  when the train stopped  at a station, I said I  was getting off to get a  hot drink. At the station,  there was stopped  another train going west.  I got on it and deserted  the Russian army. I never  saw Moskowitz again.”

Somehow, he made  his way to Jambul,  Kazakhstan, where he  was reunited with his  family. They remained there until the end  of the war.

Post-War Life

When the war ended, Upfall, his wife and  son went back to Poland, first to Kracow,  then Warsaw, where they were spirited out  of Poland by Betar, the Revisionist Zionist  youth movement, and taken to Vienna,  Austria. Dina was born in Vienna in 1947.  From there they went to a displaced persons  camp, Munchenberg, in Germany.

In 1949, the family immigrated to the  United States, joining his father in Detroit.  After receiving his license, he operated a  barber shop. He became a U.S. citizen and  changed his name to Henry in 1954.  Upfall said it is important to tell stories  like his for the future because “people  who are free do not understand how we  endured what we went through during the  Holocaust.”

“The Jewish nation is strong,” Upfall  said. “We have to stick together no matter  what. As long as we have places like  America and Israel, a Jew will never have  to ask again ‘vu ahin zol ikh geyn’ (Where  can I go?)”

 

 

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If you have a child approaching Bar/Bat Mitzvah age, some Inspiration from Space

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The astronauts from the ill-fated Columbia Space Shuttle. 10 years ago, Ilan Ramon was the first Israeli in space, and he had to take this Torah scroll with him.

My latest student sat before me sullen. Sad even. Completely disengaged. The chid complained of a headache, even a stomachache and could NOT find the strength to sing.

The child had not a chance to review the sentences given to it to study months ago. The child’s iPod had also mysteriously stopped working, so he/she could not listen to the melodies of the chanting either.

I get it.

To many emerging young Jewish adults, studying for one’s B’nei Mitzvah may not be your thing. You’ve got a life, for gosh’s sake! That life is full with homework and friends and sports and has nothing to do with chanting a strange language in a building you hardly go to!

And what does all this Hebrew mean that I can barely read and hardly understand?

And how am I going to find the time to study?

When it comes to hunkering down and preparing for one’s Bar/Bat Mitzvah, many obstacles can get in the way. In a recent post on the Jewish culture blog Kveller, a rabbinical student even honestly put it out there: why put your kid through the motions of having this Bar/Bat Mitzvah ceremony if it is devoid of meaning, when a small percentage of Jewish adults even volunteer to read from the Torah after they reach that milestone day.

Here is why.

Like it or not, kid, you are the next link in this 5,000 year chain that cannot be broken.

Last night, after my student left and after dinner and dishes, I watched a PBS special: Space Shuttle Columbia: A mission of Hope,  about the 10th anniversary of the Columbia Space Shuttle disaster. What made it all the more tragic was it was the first time an Israeli, Ilan Ramon, son of Holocaust survivors, took a trip to space.

And on this unique mission to space that bonded this unique multicultural team of astronauts was

a tiny Torah.

A Torah that survived the Holocaust.

A Torah that had been used to prepare a boy for his Bar Mitzvah in the hell of Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. A boy that survived and grew to be an old man living in Israel still in possession of this tiny scroll.

A Torah that, when Ilan Ramon heard of its story, he knew it had to accompany him in space.

For all of the Jewish people.

I’m not going to retell the story here. I won’t do it justice. But if you can, watch with your family Mission of Hope, and you will understand the Big Picture of why joining the Jewish community as a fully participating adult is an incredibly precious honor.

If that’s not inspiration enough, then look at this photo below:

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this is a recent picture of men, Holocaust survivors, who never got to be Bar Mitzvah boys. Until today.

Now, stop kvetching, stop whining, and go study.

A Hand and a Name, and a Voice – Yad Vashem

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Since I’ve returned from Israel with my family,  friends and acquaintances stop and ask me:”So, how was your trip?”

As much as I like talking about the trip, it is just so hard to sum up Israel in a quick conversation in the produce aisle. My husband is also experiencing the same when asked this question at work. How was the trip? Well, in a word: life-altering? Or, how about, transformative?

To start retelling a multi-generation trip of a lifetime to Israel, unfortunately one has to start with the hard things first. It is only from these low points: visiting the Har Herzl National cemetery, and then the Yad Vashem Holocaust Memorial, can one only understand the miracle that is Israel and how hard we have to work to never, ever take for granted the existence of this tiny country.

Before I take you to the heights of happiness of three generations celebrating a Bar Mitzvah, drinking fresh pomegranate juice, dancing on the beaches of Tel Aviv, or welcoming Shabbbat with thousands of Jews at the Western Wall, I must take you to the depths of sorrow.

It was a very hard first day. We first toured Mt. Herzl cemetery, Israel’s equivalent of Arlington National cemetery. Among Israel’s deceased prime ministers and other dignitaries lie  the graves of the many fallen soldiers who paid the ultimate sacrifice during Israel’s wars.

Here, there is no rank.  Privates are not separated from generals. The word “Nofel” – to fall – appears next to ages: 18, 22, 23, 25, young people cut down serving their country in the prime of life. The freedom to walk casually in Israel’s city streets or flowering mountainsides, we owe to them.

As part of officer training, it is common to see Israel Defense Force soldiers coming to pay their respects to those who served:

After this visit, we toured Yad Vashem, Israel’s memorial to the Holocaust.

The imposing concrete triangular prism architecture of the museum adds to the physical experience of the museum.

The triangular prism of the main exhibit hall is as powerful as the evidence within it. The viewer just wants to make it to that distant light at the end

This is the central hallway: grey, dark, lit only by overhead skylights. On the sides of this triangular structure is the progression of evidence of the annihilation of 6 million Jews. How the Holocaust was engineered through cultivating a centuries-long culture of hate against European Jewry that culminated with the Nazis war against the Jews from 1939-1945. In this short amount of time, the Nazis murdered six million Jews, one-third of European Jewry.

The viewer zigs and zags through each exhibit. There is no cutting straight through to that light at the end.  One must enter each gallery. And with each turn, you know the story will just get worse.

Sometimes, one can just get numb to the enormity of the Holocaust. The numbers of vicitms. How many were murdered from this shtetl or how many were deported from this city. Especially if you have seen the photos, confronted the numbers, and heard the testimonies of survivors for the better part of your life.

That is why within this exhibit, the story of one voice, of one victim, is powerful enough to shatter the anonymity of the number 6,000,000 and bring the narrative to one person, one name, who was lost.

On a wall was a small framed poem of a boy, age 14. He wrote: When I grow up to be 20, I will fly free away from here like a bird. I want to travel all over the world and cruise over the seas, and just be free.

The boy was murdered at Auschwitz at age 17.

Then, another  voice, the voice of my daughter, who made her own discovery.

She was chanting Torah. Her Torah portion. From a battered, water-stained Torah robbed by the Nazis, to be used one day in a museum Hitler intended to create for an extinct people.

She said, this is my Torah portion, I can totally read it and make out the letters. It was also to be the same reading we would in a few days chant for the Jerusalem celebration of my son’s Bar Mitzvah, just  days  later.

What were the odds that this tarnished, damaged Torah scroll would be open to this very passage? How many kids in that dark time did not live to see their own Bnei Mitzvah? The tears refused  to keep flowing.

So, you see, the Nazis did not fulfill their final solution. We are still here. We still live. We got through the darkness and made it into the light to behold the view of Jerusalem on a clear sunny day:

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