Nazi Archive Discovered

From the Polish American Journal:

HOLOCAUST DOCUMENTS UNVEILED. Meticulous records kept by the Nazis detailing the fate of 17.5 million of their World War II victims have been rediscovered in the German town of Bad Arolsen. The archive shelves, stretching 16 miles and containing 50 million pages of documents, are gradually being made public. They were confined to secret storage after World War II by the victorious allies out of concern for the privacy of the victims and also for political reasons.

Among the records are details about many of the imprisoned and murdered Jews, Christians, Russians, and others, including 1,900 priests who met horrific deaths under the German and Russian aggression. The archive stands as incontrovertible proof of the World War II exterminations which refute the ignorant and wilful claims of holocaust deniers. The “60 Minutes” segment detailing the archives is available on YouTube.

PRISM: A Journal for Holocaust Educators

PRISM, published by the Azrieli Graduate School, is one of the premier journals for Holocaust studies, and the latest issue is now available as a free PDF download.

The current issue focuses on Kindertransport and other attempts at large-scale rescue of Jewish children.  Among the unique and classroom-ready pieces in the issue are a Readers' Theater piece on Kindersport, along with the background on its original production, information on a Kindertransport survivor, and narrative and poetic testimony from two Kinder saved by Nicholas Winton.

The free download of the issue is available by clicking here.

To find out more about PRISM, please go to the journals website: Click here.

Nightmare's End--One Soldiers Story

My wife's Uncle Buddy was one of the GIs who liberated the many concentration camps in Nazi Germany.  Several years ago he was interviewed by documentarians making a film about the liberation of the camps.

Here's a part of his statement:



______________________________

Here's another post I did about Uncle Buddy and his war time experience.  Click here.

The Origins of Crossed-Out Swatiska

We asked Cyrus Cassells to tell us something about the inspiration and composition of Crossed-Out Swastika, his powerful book of poems about the Holocaust which was featured in our most recent blog posting.  Here's what he told us:  

What happened consistently during my 2005-6 sabbatical in Paris, as I say in the poem “Sabine Who Was Hidden in the Mountains,” was that the Holocaust and World War II became “les devoirs”—my urgent, unavoidable homework; I couldn’t seem to escape the phantoms of the war. I lived in Paris at one point on the rue Pont Louis Philippe, about a half a block from the Shoah Memorial; my landlord noticed a copy of my second book, Soul Make a Path Through Shouting, and revealed that she’d been hidden away in the mountains of southern France as a child, and that her mother was interned in Bergen Belsen. One summer I lived on the rue des Rosiers and my writing desk faced the Ecole de Travail—with its plaque dedicated to the deported Jewish schoolchildren of the Marais.

This sort of phenomenon happened time and again in Europe. I would ostensibly go somewhere for a visit, such as Amsterdam, and I’d discover I was staying around the corner from the Anne Frank House. I traveled from the Slovak Republic to Krakow to meet the poet Adam Zagajewski, and on the way, the train stopped at the Auschwitz station. I was jolted out of a nap at dusk; I looked down and discovered we’d arrived at the Auschwitz platform. Later Zagajewski encouraged me to have a little courage and visit the camp memorial; the only day I could go was November 1, the “Day of the Dead”—a daunting prospect. It turned out to be a very powerful and distinctive day to make a pilgrimage—there were deeply moving memorial candles and flowers near the ovens and other key places in the camp. The experience in Auschwitz took hold of my psyche and spurred the creation of The Crossed-Out Swastika, a voice-driven poetic cycle focused on the haunting beauty and integrity of young people caught in the vise of World War II. We’re loathe to look at what children go through in the midst of war: it’s one of the most censored dimensions of conflict. But it’s inspiriting to look at Sophie Scholl, Anne Frank, and other young people who matured in the crucible of the war, to examine the chastening and enduring legacy they left.

In the six years it took to complete the book, silence and concision became important allies in attempting to do justice to the “antimiracle” of that time. Just as I break off the poem “The Toss” in Soul Make a Path Through Shouting, I felt the need to stop the action on the page in the seventh section of the long centerpiece poem, “The Fit,”—to let the silence and blank space signify atrocity. As poets, we’re always trying to locate the most effective way to represent reality in our poems. Silence, line breaks, white space, et cetera, can be major tools in this process of diligent and accurate emotional representation. These poems fragment under the weight of painful testimony—which is often the case in real life. Silence shores the intensity of the frequently painful testimony of the young, war-tapped speakers. Silence in the poems often serves as a healing tool, as an allaying strategy to cope with the conveyance and the absorption of trauma.

I have a powerful sense of history as very human and individual, as a lived, individual experience, not as a master narrative overlaid on people’s lives.  Empathy and witness, a reclamation of the wounds of the past, returning agency to those who have suffered—these were significant aims with this project; another aim was to create a sense of intimacy with individual  stories and voices from the war; I was thrilled and deeply gratified when a reviewer remarked that The Crossed-Out Swastika “reveals the commonality of  pain in such a stark, revelatory way, that it seems idiotic to think that there was ever any distance between a contemporary reader and a Ukrainian child in the 1940s.”

_________________________

To read more at Writing the Holocaust about Mr. Cassells' Crossed-Out Swastika, just click here: Crossed-Out Swatstika.

     

The Crossed-Out Swastika by Cyrus Cassells

(Cyrus Cassells)

Introduction by Charles Adès Fishman:

There are poets who change the emotional, intellectual, and aesthetic landscape for us, whose words seem to fly even as they stagger with the weight of what they’ve imagined and what they’ve seen. They are our brothers and sisters in this life, yet they leap ahead of us at each stage of the journey because their hearts ache to write it all down, to say what has wounded and exalted them, and they say it with all the blood and flesh still clinging to the bone.

Cyrus Cassells is one of these poets, and the wonder of it is that The Crossed-Out Swastika, this most recent gathering of his poems, has an antecedent: Soul Make a Path Through Shouting (Copper Canyon, 1994), the first part of a projected three-book sequence that will deal with human rights and spiritual endurance. John Guzlowski and I have selected 5 poems from The Crossed-OutSwastika that we feel illustrate and embody this goal. The feature includes links to a wonderful reading Cassells gave in November at the Rothko Chapel in Houston and to a recent review of this book by Dan Shewan, as well as a personal statement about his enterprise and his vision.

I would like to add one more item to this feature: a 20-line excerpt from “The Weight of Brothers,” from Soul Make a Path Through Shouting: here is the drusy beauty of phrasing and the moral clarity that I associate with the writing of this exceptional poet:

To see at all is grace:

This child offers the camera

His blighted gaze.

This man peers through a mask of fire;

It has come to this:

Hen feathers, rubble, shards of broken dolls,

Rubbish from the pockets

Of a Russian soldier’s corpse,

Culled from the dust

Of his gutted shelter;

A tourniquet of turban cloth:

His blood and shock

Carried on a ragged mule

Through the winter-toothed mountains,

Over the poisoned ground,

Under hoary stars, grenades

Strapped to kites,

Over the border,

A cusp of iced trees,

To the camp —

A GREAT BEAUTY

                                              

And when her son never returned

from the meant-to-crush-him camps,

the crucible of Poland,

always-hard-at-work Isa slept

for endless hours,

and once, under her lids, she was led,

by diligent female Virgils,

to a vast meadow

where an inspirited Isa embraced,

one by one,

countless women who remained

in mourning for their cherished sons.                               

Gallant and stricken,

together the myriad bereaved               

but defiant women formed

an ever-widening circle,

prodigal with bitter tears,

and then, suddenly,

like a jackdaw darting

from eave to sun-drenched eave,

something flew between the throats

of the grieving,

heart-gutted mothers,

and a great beauty arose:

In the dream, Isa recalled,

the singing of the harrowed women

with war-taken sons   

hushed the world’s barrenness.

In the dream, the startling river of sound

altered the embattled earth.

SABINE WHO WAS HIDDEN IN THE MOUNTAINS

                                                                                                      

I.  A Girl of Vichy France

Blue paper filled her first windows,

not snatch-gossip sparrows

or the sun’s reveille,

but a verdict of iron,

perfect-for-hopscotch parks,

Seine-lit stores

with exquisite engines

of this-and-not-that,

became, for “me–first” Sabine, impossible:

everywhere almond-green greatcoats

and boots like trampling hooves—

Bells of invaded parishes

tolled the sallow hours;

fine-made mezuzahs were mauled

by braying patriots,

and learners whose hair

would never thin or silver

were banished from their desks and inkwells:

École de Garcons, rue Neuve Saint Pierre,

École de Filles, rue de L’ave Maria . . .

Where a cellophane France,

all flyapart assurances,

renounced Sabine and her peers—

plane trees and regretful plaques

urging N’oubliez pas

or Ne les oublions jamais,

so that the questing pilgrim

or the alert passerby

might perceive,

in the midst of the sumptuous city,

soulhollows

where even the smallest Parisians

were obliterated without pity.

II. A Resemblance

A contrite Paris has unveiled

photos and still-vile documents to decry

the specter of sundering trains

aiming star-patched children

through tunnels and laconic fields:

11,400 hopes--

Sabine, who was hidden in the mountains,

has nudged me to city hall

to live awhile in the duress,

the dog’s-snarl cosmos

of never-grown deportees.

But will Parisians take time,

Sabine laments, to bear in mind

the children of verboten sidewalks,

verboten parks?

Look, Sabine remarks:

before his transport to Poland,

a brave boy left on a wall,

We are leaving Drancy in good spirits,

but for the traveler, the commuter,

today Drancy, where we Jews were held,

is only a place you whisk by

on the train to the airport—

Near us, some vying kids

are unsettled

by the uncanny resemblance

between a child in a yellowed photo

and a schoolgirl who lingers,

crestfallen, hollow before

the image of her deported twin–

When the welter of kids passes,

Sabine whispers:

Ma pauvre petite!

Hurry, we’ve got to help her:

she was too stunned to notice

the girl in the picture lived!

  

III. Ghosts

Sabine with her forest-colored blouse

fills my summer rooms

on the rue des Rosiers;

on Sabbath mornings,

Hebrew singing floats

from the temple on the rue Pavée,

competing with the voluble

pigeons who adore my ledge.

Clear-eyed Sabine is quick to notice

how my writing desk faces

the École de Travail with its doleful plaque

blessing deported pupils and teachers--

So the war has become

your devoirs:

Yes, Sabine, my homework

that I can’t seem to escape:

My friend, when I entered your flat,

I could feel it in my bones:

the family that once lived here

was deported!

No surprise in your neighborhood:

the Pletzl!

Sabine, yesterday my landlord read

my poem rooted in the war

and revealed: as a small girl,

she was hidden like you.

Poet, from cellar to cellar, I remember

I held onto, of all things,

a picture book about a magical goat,

inscribed by my witty father:

This storybook belongs

to Mademoiselle Sabine

the way Paris once belonged

to Marie Antoinette—

Somehow having that book

helped me to endure

the cold and fear---

And when I returned to Paris

it was to a world of ghosts,

the void shaped

by my murdered generation.

Was it the same for you

in the epidemic--

when you returned,

after so many deaths,

to San Francisco?

Do the men, like my school friends,

still come to  you in dreams?

At the exhibit, I thought:

Small as they were in life,

my playmates,

their souls must be immense by now.

                          

JULIEK’S VIOLIN

                          

Even here?

In this snowbound barrack?

Suddenly, the illicit sounds

of Beethoven’s concerto

erupt from Juliek’s smuggled violin,

suffusing this doomsday shed

teeming with the trampled

and the barely alive,

realm of frostbite and squalor,

clawing panic and suffocation—

Insane, God of Abraham,

insanely beautiful:

a boy insisting

winter cannot reign forever,

a boy conveying his brief,

bounded life

with a psalmist’s or a cantor’s

arrow-sure ecstasy—

One prison-striped friend

endures to record

the spellbinding strings,

the woebegone—

and the other,

the impossible Polish fiddler,

is motionless by morning,

his renegade instrument

mangled

under the haggard weight

of winterkilled, unraveling men.

Music at the brink of the grave,

 

eloquent in the pitch dark,

tell-true, indelible,

                              

as never before,

as never after—

Abundance,

emending beauty,

linger in the listening,

the truth-carrying soul of Elie,      

soul become slalom swift,

camp shrewd, uncrushable;

abundance, be here, always here,

in this not-yet-shattered violin.

THE POSTCARD OF SOPHIE SCHOLL      

There is the lightning-white moment

when I learn—

the way my costive train to Krakow

stopped

and I woke to find myself,

in jostling twilight,

at the Auschwitz platform—

that the Italian postcard

I garnered in Milan years ago

as a genial talisman,

isn’t of a pipe-dreaming

Italian boy,

no, no, but an androgynous

image of Sophie Scholl,

the young, intrepid resistance heroine—

as if I’d registered,

in my Schubert-adoring daughter,

my school-resisting son,

a fire undetected before:

Doric-strong nouns demanding

What would you undertake

to stop tyranny?—

stouthearted nouns:

integrity, probity, courage;

in benighted Munich,

the spit-in-the-eye swiftness,

the unbossed bloom

of a crossed-out swastika,

the fierce integrity

in the gust of the word freedom

sprayed over the walls

and ramparts of a deranged

fatherland that rent flesh

as if it were foolscap—

Someday you will be

where I am now,

a steely, premonitory Sophie

proclaimed to the rapacious

Nazi tribunal that rushed her

to execution—

Gazer, collector, in clarity’s name,

look close, then closer:

it’s not just a bud-sweet,

pensive beauty,

a bel ragazzo’s charm;

all these years:

it’s the spirit of crusading youth

that I’ve cherished.

AUSCHWITZ, ALL HALLOWS

Look, we have made

a counterpoint

of white chrysanthemums,

a dauntless path

of death-will-not-part-us petals

and revering light;

even here,

even here

before the once-wolfish ovens,

the desecrating wall

where you were shot,

the shrike-stern cells

where you were bruised

and emptied of your time-bound beauty--

you of the confiscated shoes

and swift-shorn hair,

you, who left,

as sobering testament, the scuffed                   

luggage of utter hope

and harrowing deception.

Come back, teach us.

From these fearsome barracks

and inglorious fields

flecked with human ash,

in the russet-billowing hours

of All Hallows,

let the pianissimo

of your truest whispering

(vivid as the crunched frost        

of a forced march)

become a slowly blossoming,

ever-voluble hearth—

revealing to us,

the baffled, the irresolute,

the war torn, the living,

more of the fire

and attar of what it means

to be human.

___________________

The book is available at Amazon
.  

A review of Cassells' book by Dan Shewan appeared recently online at The Rumpus.  You can read it by clicking here.

Cyrus Cassells is the author of five books: The Mud Actor, a National Poetry Series winner and finalist for the Bay Area Book Reviewers Award; Soul Make a Path Through Shouting, hailed as one of the Best Books of 1994 by Publishers Weekly, the winner of the William Carlos Williams Award, and a finalist for the Lenore Marshall Prize; Beautiful Signor, winner of the Lambda Literary Award, the Sister Circle Book Award (for African-American literature), and a finalist for the Bay Area Book Reviewers Award; More Than Peace and Cypresses, a Lannan Literary Selection, named one of the Best Poetry Books of 2004 by Library Journal; and The Crossed-Out Swastika, 2012. Still Life with Children: Selected Poems of Francesc Parcerisas, translated from the Catalan, is forthcoming. Among his honors are a Lannan Literary Award, a Pushcart Prize, and two NEA grants. He is a Professor of English at Texas State University-San Marcos.

Helen Eisen

I received a note yesterday telling me that Helen Eisen recently died, on Oct. 29, 2012 in New York.

I never met Helen, but I did read her book of poems, The Permeability of Memory, and it touched me deeply.  Like me, Helen had been born in a Displaced Persons camp, a refugee camp, after World War II to parents who were Polish survivors.

In 2009, I did a blog about Helen and her writing.  I would like to repost it now as a memorial to Helen.


THE PERMEABILITY OF MEMORY

Helen Eisen's The Permeability of Memory drew me in because she did something that I find myself unable to do.

 

I've written a lot about my father and mother and their experiences in the concentration camps, but I've seldom been able to write about my own memories of my experiences in the refugee camps, the DP camps, after the war. Part of this, I'm sure is my inability to remember much about those times. I was born in 1948 and left the camps in 1951 to come to America with my parents. Another part of this, however, I think, is my sense that my story -- as opposed to the story of my parents and the people of their generation -- is nothing. I find it almost impossible to think of my parents' experiences within the context of my experiences. I can't think about that connection. When I write, I write about them.

Helen Eisen, however, has somehow found a way of connecting herself to her past and her parents in ways I can't, and I admire her writing and her gift for doing this.

I asked her a couple questions about memory and about the title of her work The Permeability of Memory.

Here's what I wrote to her:

The Permeability of Memory? Can you please explain the title? Memory is something that really interests me. I write a lot about my parents and I know that my memories of their past don't always line up with their memories of their past or my sister's memories of the past. In fact, I wrote a poem about the distance between my mom's memories and mine. It's called "My Mother Reads My Poem 'Cattle Train to Magdeburg.'" In addition, my mother didn't want to share her memories for a long time, while my dad was always interested in doing so.

Here's Helen Eisen's response to my questions:

I also find memory fascinating, what it is, how it works, how it's transmitted. I meant the title to talk to that-- how memories are passed on, the movement of memory over time and distance. I think it is lovely that you use the word "distance" when you say in your email, "I wrote a poem about the distance between my mother's memories and mine." At different times I've been asked, "When did you first learn about the Holocaust?" (By the way, we never used the term. We just called it the war. It's like if a relative were standing in your kitchen dressed in an old bathrobe and you say, "Mr. Buckleboren, what would you like for breakfast today? I do hope we can appropriately accommodate you.") The thing is I don't remember when I learned about the war, it's like I always knew about it, which of course at some level I did. Its effects, if not the actual verbalized memories, were transmitted by my parents and the other survivors that used to visit our apartment, but seemed to live with us. Their visits were never just visits. And with them came all the memories, like butter spread on rye and radishes in the cottage cheese. Everyone disagreed about the wheres and whens, and there was a lot of (to me bizarre) laughter. I'd stay very quiet and listen, trying to make sense of it all. I have memories of hiding under the kitchen table, but I don't believe I really did because it was a small table. But I think I imagined this memory because I knew if they became aware of me in the room they'd shoo me out, so how would I have stayed in the room if I wasn't hiding?

To return to my explanation: I learned about the war through the memories of my parents, which they relayed verbally and non-verbally. (Father much more verbal and very, very confusing). Memories live (and die) in the body. I think the non-verbal transmission was more potent, more constant/consistent, more direct, more exact--even if I can't translate this exactness. All mothers sigh, no mother sighs like my mother. She is holding me as a baby, and when she let them other women in the DP camp held me. What passed through them to the children, in my case, to me? I'm sure the particular tensing of their muscles, their breath, their scent, all their vital, non-verbal, sub-vocal, innate and learned vocabularies left some kind of imprint.

Mostly knowledge of the war--my memories of the war--came through the body of my mother. I think memories live in the body, and die, change, devolve, grow, dependent like anything else on relative conditions and context. Who is listening? What's the temperature when I'm talking? How well do I remember this recipe when I'm starving? When I'm full?

From the body of my mother to my body. I see it as a kind of osmosis--the permeability of the membranes between us, and the membranes between memories within her. What she's closed off, what she's let through. How far through? What's the resistance to letting me see them, letting me in, how much of it because she wants to keep me out, how much because she wants me to see because she is alone there, but doesn't want to want me to be there.

Osmotic passage occurs from the more dense to the less dense. From my mother's milk, I drew my breath, and she filled me.


Here's one of the poems from Helen Eisen's Permeability of Memory:

MY MOTHER MY MOTHER

Was starving
Was starving
After the war
Was another war
My mother my mother
Was starving
After the war
She stuffed food into me
Because she was starving
After the war during
Which she was starving
She stuffed food into me
Because she was starving
I can see her pushing the food into my mouth
I cannot feel I cannot feel the food pushing into the mouth
I can see my mother
Starving
For the food she put into me
To feed herself
My mother pushed food into me
To feel herself
While she was starving all of the life pushed
To feed herself
To feel herself
Starving
I can't feel the food
Or taste
What my mother fed me
She took
The food away
From herself
I can see her starving
To feed me
Greasy lamb from her fingers
Here taste
Of her saliva
On my tongue
My mother
I loved her
I fed her
Myself

___________

Helen Eisen's The Permeability of Memory is published by Cherry Pie Press. You can read more about the book by clicking here.

The Holocaust in the News and on the Web

Holocaust survivors protest against migrant deportation Ynetnews In an effort to join the struggle against the deportation of migrants from Israel, Holocaust survivors marched across Tel Aviv, demonstrating against the arrest and expulsion of asylum seekers. Relates stories: Holocaust survivors to protest against migrant ... See all stories on this topic »

Jews, Muslims, the Holocaust, and Israel Council on Foreign Relations (blog) Today, Secretary Clinton speaks at an event at the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum, held in collaboration with CFR and CNN, on the subject of genocide prevention. I wish that a major Arab country was the host for this event. Last week I visited the West ... See all stories on this topic » Council on Foreign Relations (blog)

Clinton: Remain vigilant against Holocaust denial Jewish Telegraphic Agency WASHINGTON (JTA) -- U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton said that Holocaust denial and Israel criticism that crosses into anti-Semitism require vigilance. On Tuesday, Clinton addressed a symposium at the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum on preventing ... See all stories on this topic »

Survivors of Chemical Holocaust Stage Special Olympics in Bhopal Bay Area Indymedia London 2012 Supersize me! McD is an Olympic Partner, so is Coca Cola, and to ice the cake we have Dow Chemical. Dow bought Union Carbide in 2001, along with the legacy of Bhopal, where 15000 people died in a 1984 chemical holocaust that remains ... See all stories on this topic » Bay Area Indymedia

United States Holocaust Memorial Museum Unveils New Poll: Americans ... MarketWatch (press release) A new poll commissioned by the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum finds that 67 years after the Holocaust, Americans believe genocide is still very possible, yet preventable, and they would like to see the US government play a major role in stopping ... See all stories on this topic »

HOLMBERG: Holocaust Museum ouster a battle of wills? WTVR RICHMOND, Va (WTVR)- It appears the controversy surrounding the emphatic dismissal of Virginia Holocaust Museum president, director and co-founder Jay Ipson is winding down, but the behind-the-scenes machinations over his ouster remains largely ... See all stories on this topic » WTVR

Slovakia's Jewish community wants alleged Holocaust-era war criminal to be ... Washington Post BRATISLAVA, Slovakia — Slovak's Jewish community is calling on state authorities to request that a 97-year-old alleged Holocaust-era war criminal under house arrest in Hungary stand trial in Slovakia. Laszlo Csatary is suspected by prosecutors of abusing ... See all stories on this topic »

SHAME: Western Holocaust Denial In Congo Black Star News On the other hand, the powers now roaring loudly with respect to Syria have maintained deafening silence and are in fact accomplices in the Holocaust of over 7 million people in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). The violence is being perpetrated by ... See all stories on this topic »

Holocaust survivor tells his story for the first time The Journal News | LoHud.com An overflow audience listens to Holocaust survivor Eli Stern of Monsey during the annual Tisha B'Av program at the Holocaust Museum & Study Center in Spring Valley on Sunday. Also on the program was a presentation by Rabbi Barry Shafier. See all stories on this topic »

Laszlo Csatary Case: Nazi War Crimes Supported By Strong Holocaust ... Huffington Post BUDAPEST, Hungary -- The evidence against a 97-year-old Hungarian man accused of abusing Jews and helping deport thousands during the Holocaust is much stronger than a similar case last year that ended in a high-profile acquittal, experts say. See all stories on this topic »

Blogs 5 new results for holocaust

Virginia Holocaust Museum meeting will determine Ipson's future ... By Nick Dutton The holocaust survivor asked supporters not protest outside the Thursday meeting so board members could enter and leave without pressure. WTVR.com – Richmond News &...

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Jay Ipson will stay on at Holocaust Museum - NBC12.com ... By Sarah Bloom Jay will stay with the Virginia Holocaust Museum, although in what role and with what power is still somewhat unclear. WWBT - NBC12 News

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Clinton at U.S. Holocaust museum: We must fight demonization of ... Speaking at Washington conference, U.S. secretary of state says that world must reject Holocaust glorification, make clear that violence, bigotry 'will not be ... www.haaretz.com/news/diplomacy-defense/1.453386 _______________________ All of the above information came from a Google Alert on the Holocaust.