Michael Fox - Becoming Ordinary: A Youth Born of the Holocaust, What I Kept, What I Let Go...

This memoir is based on the authors recollections; some names have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals mentioned.

Published by:

Small Print Press

New York, NY

Copyright 2021 Michael Fox

ISBNs:

978-0-578-32517-0 (paperback)

978-0-578-32935-2 (epub)

All rights reserved. No part of this transmission may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any mean, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

Edited by Carol Killman Rosenberg
www.carolkillmanrosenberg.com

Cover and interior by Gary A. Rosenberg
www.thebookcouple.com

Front cover photo: Michael at Camp Hemshekh (1961), a half year after leaving yeshiva. (Taken by my dear friend, Jakob Litman.)

Back cover photo: Recent photo of Michael taken by former Camp Hemshekh participant George Rothe, who is now a retired attorney and grandfather, as well as camp archivist.

This work is dedicated
in loving memory
to my parents,
Chaim Leib and Lea,
whose worlds I inhabited;
and to my brothers, my mentors,
Mayer and Jay,
for whom I have
enduring longing.

Menachem

Chaim Leib Fox

Like wild wolves the winds

From the mountaintops blow.

My wife in birth-throes writhing,

Its time the child lies low

Hushed and trembling as if to Isaacs binding

To the hospital we go

Summer night in Kazakhstan

Village huddled, sweet, asleep

The River Ili quick beside us

Rippling, splashing from the deep

Two Jews lock step in silence

Outcasts with no time to weep

Above the peaks low clouds unfurl

Somber, gray, they spread

Like faces from my far-off land

Their call rings out unsaid:

Bring forth new life, they clamor

To replace six million dead.

Night takes its bow, river banks grow bright

Flames the horizon sear.

The wind, the savage, shrieks.

My peoples cries I hear

Through fire, through ash,

Close behind, so near.

With mile-long steps, on wind and wave

Rushes in the morn.

Each drop of day, a golden ray

From the heavens torn.

With dawn, to an orphaned folk

You, my son, are born

I did not ask you first

On my own I saddled you

My peoples lot now yours to bear:

To wander forth, unwanted

A homeless, beggar Jew

You sleep, you cannot hear my fury

Your fathers blood it sweeps.

You cannot see his tears, the rain

The world is crying

For you, my child, it weeps.

You sleep, pale smile upon your face

Your first respite, I coo,

From fate ordained, unsparing:

Mean streets to roam, forlorn

Less than a dog, a Jew.

You sleep, I rock your meager cradle

As if it were of gold

But the gold-fleeced kid is dead

And gone is grandma and her song,

And I have no words for horror yet untold

You sleep the sleep of life

I wake among the dying.

From my homeland, borne by winds

Their souls set sail and come to rest

Upon the crib where you, new-born, are lying

Far is it better that you sleep?

Better yet were it all a dream?

But the wind is real, and my mothers cry I hear

Her last sigh, her last plea

To God, for a sign, for a beam

The wind is real, and in every rustle I hear

Messiahs first steps It wont be long.

In his shade you gently sway

Dont cry my son, my little great Jew

My living song.

(Village of Ili, June 1945)

Translated from the Yiddish by Rena Berkowicz Borow

For Lonya, My Mother

Michael Fox

I do not know how to sing for my mother

Who sits at the kitchen table stock-still

A piece of rye bread suspended from her fingers

A movie flashing from out of her eyes

Scenes of her Konin, the days of her childhood

Where she blossomed in physical form and in spirit

Her tomorrows she clutched, with dread, desperation

To make her way elsewhere was her only choice

As she left unknowing

She would never return

There would be no one left

What had she done

The woman child that I knew as her child

Recited in humor the rhyme that defined her

Green canary, the dark cellar has turned you to gold

Would she could soar like a golden eagle

But shes tethered to the invisible Konin stone

Now only the movie flashes before her

In a darkened room her father sits stooped

His eyes are blurred by the Talmud no longer

Pricks his fingers on needles, the pain has long gone

Hums a psalm to the rhythm of the seam he is threading

As he sews the urgings in other mens clothes

Her mother in her sickbed did not die soon enough

She lies withered before her, her eyes hollow but sure

With feeble words whispered she rends Lonyas soul

You must leave now, we have nothing left for you here

A threadbare dress should not be your tomorrows

Or a crust of bread three ways to share

If only she had stayed and lain next to her mother

And held her as the beasts came to beat down the door

And had stood near her father and pressed his garments

To be his last raiment, his iron in her hand

If only shed been dragged in the street

Butchered beside them

And honored them thus with her dying breath

A life shes since made, shes not sure how to judge it

Could there be any judgment when theres no justice at all

In moments she triumphs over evils destruction

Her laughter resounds in peals of pure joy

When she dances along with the ghosts of her childhood

The shards of her friends from those days long ago

And her children she tends to with hands always trembling

Along with the shadows that hover behind them

The movie keeps running, the good and the horror

Lie next to each other in unbearable calm

And she hangs suspended like the bread in her hand

A crust to be shared with how many mouths

Hear mother, Im singing, a song of tomorrow

Ive blossomed in spirit and physical form

Youll be my child as I carry you onward

I am your raiment, your own silken dress

I am the iron you hold without shirking

As I hold you in the gaze

Of my hollow eyes

Lonya was my mother Leas Polish name.

Two Brothers

Michael Fox

There were two brothers once

Both strangers in this land

Theyd seen too many things in too few years

Their eyes were black as coal

But light shone out of them

Their vision crowded out their tears

There were two brothers once

Quiet and rageful men

Few knew the measure of their muffled cry

They raised their fists and shrugged

And pitied those that asked

The why and wherefore of the sky

There were two brothers once

Gentle as they were strong

All that they had they gave away with ease

They watched the seasons change

And that was good enough

Gone like the whisper of a breeze

Contents

Acknowledgments

I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to two people I hold so dear who lovingly read every piece of this manuscript as it emerged and who urged me on to keep writing. Thank you, dear Gabriel Ross and dearest Rena Berkowicz Borow.

I would not be the person I am or be able to share this early part of my life experience without the love and support of dear friends. My friends from Hemshekh to this day have given me succor and the deepest sense of belonging: Elliott Palevsky, my friend, confessor, and brother. Also, my dear Donna Palevsky, Ruth Goldberg Ross, Steven Meed, Rita Goldwasser Meed, Anna Fiszman Gonshor, Aron Gonshor, and Raizel Fiszman Candib. Also dear are Larry Amsel and Diane Dreher Amsel, Sherry King, Jeremy Tannenbaum, Ellen Asbyl Tannenbaum, Arthur and Margareta Gilman, Michael Schwartz, Judy Mortman Schwartz, and Joan and Richard Keiser. All these people are my community and family.