Tamir - I Only Wanted to Live: The Struggle of a Boy to Survive the Holocaust

Whydid I suddenly remember to write my story?

I was about 7 years old when World War II broke out. We were a happy familywith three children. My sister, Gizia, was three years older than me and mysister Sarenka was about five years younger (she was a year old when the warbegan). I was nicknamed "Leosz" which stood for my formal name Leon. My mother took care of the house and kept busy with all sorts of socialactivities. I remember her as always being beautiful and radiant, dressed in thebest of taste, and always concerned about her appearance. Like every goodJewish Pole she was very proud of her children and would habitually boast aboutour amazing exploits. Financially, we were in the upper middle class. Thehorrific war burst into this good and happy life and after an unbearable sixyears of going through all the levels of hell, my whole family parents,sisters, 16 aunts and uncles and 23 cousins were all murdered, and only Isurvived.

Like many Holocaust survivors, I didn't talk much about what I experienced.After I was liberated on May 5, 1945, from the Mauthausen concentration camp, Irepeated my story hundreds of times in various circumstances. About a yearlater, though, I gradually disconnected myself from my past. This break lastedfor about 50 years. Few of my friends knew I was a survivor; they thought thatI was at least a second-generation Israeli. Even my children didn't know. Ididn't hide it, and I wasn't ashamed of being a Holocaust survivor I justwasnt interested in telling anyone. For me, it was like I had been reborn inIsrael and started my life over again here on the kibbutz. However, ever sincethe Holocaust, it has been like a sad cloud always hung over me. It's hard forme to feel free, to be happy with all my heart, or even to go wild.

Around 16 years ago I started getting more interested in the history of theHolocaust and World War II in general. I did have one cousin of my father's whohad survived, Gina Milgrom. She had immigrated to Israel in 1946 and had hadthree children who were parents themselves at that point. Since we were theonly relatives the two of us had in Israel, we were very close. Gina passedaway in 1994.

In May 2010, my family decided to go on a trip back to my roots, so we went toKrakow, Poland, where Gina and I were born. My wife, Ariella, and twodaughters, Orit and Liat went, as did Miriam Nitzan, Gina's daughter, with herhusband Meir and three children Michal, Eran and Einat. This trip was mainlymeant for the "children," the second and third generations who atthis point were in their twenties and thirties. For five days we visited the"Kazimierz" Jewish quarter, the Jewish ghetto, the Plaszow concentrationcamp on the edge of Krakow, and the Auschwitz concentration camp.

I was surprised by the "children's" interest in everything I toldthem about the Holocaust and my family. I'm not one of the world's greatstory-tellers, but I still felt that they listened to my stories with a growingthirst. Sometimes they wouldnt let me end a story; they immediately asked meto keep going and tell the rest of it. One evening, we sat in our hotel, and thanks to Eran's great initiative we watched "Schindler's List,"directed by Steven Spielberg. After the film was over, I related a story aboutone of the incidents in the movie that I'd had the "honor" of beingpart of In it: I and my friend Jezyk and several other kids organized an escapefrom a children's transport from Plaszow to Auschwitz. When I finished tellingit, my family started peppering me with questions, mainly revolving aroundtheir desire to know what happened at the end to Jezyk. Unfortunately, Icouldn't answer that. To my sorrow, I don't have answers to hundreds, eventhousands of those kinds of questions: "What happened to them at theend." Events occurred at a dizzying pace, where I'd meet various peopleand then they'd disappear from my life. This trip back to my roots and the strongdesire of the young generation to know ever more of my experiences during thewar, was one of the causes of my writing down my memories.

As I read more about the Holocaust, my memories long suppressed beganrunning through my mind once more. I started picturing each one of myrelatives, and the friends with whom I had been significantly involved with. Istarted imagining how each one ended his life, if he'd suffered before he died,if she had cried, acted with self-respect, tried to fight. Maybe after I finishwriting my memoir I'll try and search for the people whom I met during mysix-year fight for survival.

I hope that the story that follows as so many have done before will act asa kind of memorial for my sisters and parents, aunts, uncles and cousins, andevery single person I will mention in my memoir, even if I didn't remembertheir names with total accuracy.