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Diane Wyshogrod - Hiding Places: A Mother, a Daughter, an Uncovered Life (Excelsior Editions)

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Hiding Places: A Mother, a Daughter, an Uncovered Life (Excelsior Editions): summary, description and annotation

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A daughter struggles to get her mother to talk about her Holocaust experiences, and tries to understand how those experiences have shaped her own life.
Whats it like to spend sixteen months in hiding, crouching in a tiny cellar, during the dark years of World War II? To know that many of your friends and relatives have either been shot or sent to concentration camps? To have your life depend on the humanity of an elderly Christian couple who lets you hide under their floor? What if you knew it had been your mother crouching under that floor? Wouldnt you wonder how she stood it? How it felt? What it did to her? And how it all affected you? In Hiding Places, Diane Wyshogrod traces the process of discovery and self-discovery as she researched the experiences of her mother, Helen Rosenberg, who as a teenager hid in just such a cellar, in Zkiew, Poland. The narrative, which moves between New York, pre-war and wartime Poland, and Jerusalem, is based on many hours of recorded interviews and covers Helens life before, during, and after World War II.
Although Wyshogrods original intention was simply to record her mothers experiences, piecing the narrative together proved difficult: there were numerous gaps, things her mother could (or would) no longer remember, and other things her daughter just couldnt comprehend. To fill in these gaps, Wyshogrod draws from all the facets of her identity--writer, clinical psychologist, daughter, mother--in an attempt not only to understand her mothers experiences, but to find out why it is so important for her (and for us) to make that attempt in the first place.

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Hiding Places A Mother a Daughter an Uncovered Life DIANE WYSHOGROD - photo 1
Hiding Places
A Mother, a Daughter, an Uncovered Life
DIANE WYSHOGROD
Cover art paper sculpture by Morris Wyszogrod Published by State University of - photo 2
Cover art paper sculpture by Morris Wyszogrod.
Published by State University of New York Press, Albany
2012 State University of New York
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission. No part of this book may be stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means including electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
For information, contact State University of New York Press, Albany, NY
www.sunypress.edu
Excelsior Editions is an imprint of State University of New York Press
Production by Ryan Morris
Marketing by Fran Keneston
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wyshogrod, Diane.
Hiding Places : a mother, a daughter, an uncovered life / Diane Wyshogrod.
p. cm.
Excelsior Editions
ISBN 978-1-4384-4243-3 (hardcover : alk. paper)
1. Wyshogrod, Diane. 2. Jews, AmericanIsraelBiography. 3. Clinical psychologistBiography. 4. Holocaust survivorsUnited StatesBiography. 5. Mothers and daughtersBiography. I. Title.
DS113.8.A4W97 2012
940.53'18092dc23
[B]
2011028315
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Chaim
and
Yonatan, David, and Yehoshua
The loves of my life
and
With everlasting gratitude to
Emil and Maria oziski
Prologue
I don't want you to write this book.
My mother is emphatic.
I mean, writing it is okay, as long as it's for the family, she continues. But you never said anything about publishing this. Oh, no.
She's shaking her head now. Each shake has its punctuation:
No.
No.
Each no raps like a judge's gavel. Sentencing complete.
I don't want strangers to read about my life. And all those stories about my childhood? You and your brother, the kids, okay. But others? Oh, no.
I don't see why not. My mind is racing. I force myself to talk slowly, to keep my voice level. There's nothing there that could embarrass you. You didn't do anything wrong
Of course not, she interrupts, indignant. She doesn't yield. But I'm a very private person. Besides, I never liked to talk about it. Unlike your father. I mean, I never hid it either. You knew what happened to me, but it's finished and I don't like to think about it.
Our voices are braiding in and out of each other.
I know that. I'm not giving in either. I'm not her daughter for nothing. But your story's important. It should be recorded. People should know. Besides, it's not just about you. It's about us, you and me.
Well, then, keep it in the family. For the family, okay?
Here it was, the reaction I had dreaded for years. But I thought I'd worked all that out, that she and I had an understanding. That she knew what I was doing and approved of it. I'd hoped to be spared exactly this.
I was wrong.
It may sound like just another one of those mother-daughter differences of opinion, a clash of wills neither likes losing. But it's more than that. Otherwise, my guts wouldn't be whirling like a food processor while I struggle to keep my cool. What we are really talking about is something that goes so deep, that's been so buried, I'm not sure I've fully excavated it yet. I'm being challenged to mount my defense, and I can barely utter a word. Not to her. Especially not to her.
This is a story I have spent fifteen years of my life writing. And all the years of my life living.
I wasn't looking for this story. In fact, for most of my life, I was perfectly happy to leave it where it was, curled up quietly in the background, not hidden, but not being paraded about either. Like my mother. She didn't hide what had happened to her, she just didn't dwell on it. She'd shrug.
Nothing happened to me.
Her nothing consisted of being hidden, together with her parents, in the cellar of a Polish Christian couple during World War II. They were in hiding for sixteen months. Maybe it seems like nothing to her, compared with what my father went through. He survived the Warsaw Ghetto and ten concentration camps. His entire family was wiped out by the Germans. Now that's a story, my mother says. What's her story, anyone's story, compared with his?
This is my mother's way, to treat her experiences matter-of-factly, to put it all behind her and move on. And, I must admit, I was more than happy to move on with her. My father's frequent references to Those Days more than made up for her reticence. Against the roar of my father's pain and rage, hers was but a still small voice, barely a murmur.
For a long time.
For the longest time.
Until something changed.
I didn't see it coming. I didn't plan on it. I wasn't out hunting war stories, certainly not this one. I was catapulted against my will into this one. This story came and got me. It grabbed me by the neck and wouldn't let go. It dared me to take it on, or shake it offif I could. I couldn't. It's been years now, the story clawing me, me clutching back, trying to tame it. Years of writing and self-analysis and talking it over with friends, and tears, lots of tears, trying to live with this thing living inside me. Years of struggling to attain some more or less equal footing, so that this story wouldn't wring me out like a shmatte, a used-up rag.
Keep it in the family? I wish I could. It would certainly make my life easier. But keeping it private, in the family, is not doing it justice. Because if I do that, I'm pushing my mother back down into that cellar. I won't be an accomplice to her staying in hiding. I want to rescue her. To take her out of there. I want thisand herout in the light, even if that light is bright and glaring and hurts the eyes.
I want to be my mother's champion, riding into the jousts, her token on my sleeve, fighting for her. I can't do anything else, now, sixty-five years too late. I can't save her anymore from Then, from what happened, much as I would like to turn back the clock and do so. Give me this chance, Mom, to tell the world what you mean to me. To say, out loud, for everyone to hear, that you were there, that you survived, that you overcame. That they couldn't put you into a silent hole in the ground and keep you there. That it did not become your grave. It became your womb, and ultimately, it birthed me.
That's why I have to write this book. And publish it. To celebrate that life. Yours. Mine. Ours.
That's what I would like to say to my mother. As is most typical for me, who learned this style from her, I don't. I keep my mouth shut and all this inside. I'll bring it up again, another time. Maybe. Maybe time will work its magic, and this will work itself out. In the meantime, this project and I stagger forward, dance backward, lumber onward, clutched in an embrace of life and death.
Chapter One
It's almost eleven o'clock on a weekday morning in November 1994. Back in New York, I would already be shivering in the bone-chill of late autumn, winter already breathing frostily down my neck. But on this day in Jerusalem, where I now live, the weather is still summer-like. A beam of yellow sunlight slants like a leaning tower through the tall windows of my kitchen, bouncing off motes of dust dancing in the air. I am grateful for the cool cocoon created by the two-foot-thick stone walls of the house we are renting in Jerusalem's Greek Colony.
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