L’Chayim! a Holocaust Survivor’S American Journey: A Memoir

© 2015 Paul A. Schwarzbart. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  03/06/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-7064-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-7062-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-7063-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015902589

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Foreword

I met the inimitable Paul Schwarzbart more than thirty years ago, and I knew from that first encounter that he was someone I would want to know better. He spoke at a gathering of Holocaust survivors and hidden children, telling an abbreviated version of his own story. I was teaching Facing History and Ourselves, a special and newly developed course at Milpitas High School, focused on history and literature about genocide and human rights, most specifically about Holocaust and human behavior. As I listened to Paul’s story, I knew I wanted him to meet my students—and so it began. He visited and lectured in my classes each year, and I marveled at his ability to connect with young people whose lives were so different from his. I didn’t realize, in the beginning, that the obvious differences were only part of the story. Paul connected in the most authentic ways with students—because his story illuminated common human needs for acceptance, security, stability, and love. The young people understood more about the larger history than they would ever learn from a textbook—and more about themselves than if they had never met an amazing, compassionate, lovable and enthusiastic stranger—someone they wish lived next door to them.

When I left classroom teaching in 1996 to help establish the northern California office of the national nonprofit organization for which my course had been named, Facing History and Ourselves, I had the chance to connect Paul to many other teachers in schools all over the area where Facing History courses are taught. Facing History’s mission is to provide training, support, resources, and service to teachers just like me. And to this day, whenever a teacher in our growing network asks for a reference to a survivor speaker, Paul is among the first we call upon.

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Dear Mr. Weinstein,

We just met Mr. Paul Schwarzbart, who came to our class to tell us his amazing story about surviving the Holocaust. I was told that you arranged this visit. I wanted to thank you and Facing History for that. I already wrote a thank you note to Paul. But I thought you might like to know what students thought about his talk. We loved it. So I am writing to you, too.

Sincerely,

Jasmine

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I found myself back at the school a couple of weeks after Paul’s visit. I asked the teacher if I could meet Jasmine to thank her for her letter. The conversation I had with her was the kind any educator would value. It was clear that the class had already studied the subject in a pretty strong way. They had learned about Europe before, during, and after World War II, studied the rise of the Nazis, how democracy was lost, and how the plan to murder the Jews of Europe unfolded. Then, they read Night, by Elie Wiesel, and according to Jasmine, began to grasp the full horror of the Holocaust. She also made it clear that she had read and heard about resistance and rescue, and even debated about justice, as if there could ever be justice after something like the Holocaust. They saw a documentary about the Nuremberg Trials, and Jasmine kindly referenced that I had been to class to answer questions they had compiled. It was at that stage that I had arranged for Paul to visit and speak. I told Jasmine I was sorry to have been away when Paul was there.

Jasmine told me that everyone paid close attention. Partly, that’s because Paul is funny. He loves to laugh and to make others laugh. His story is sad AND happy. Jasmine explained that everyone in class experienced both those emotions during Paul’s talk. She described how her teacher had tears as Paul spoke about HIS teacher, Monsieur Campé, who cared so much about Paul and took risks to make life bearable for his student. Paul told us what it was like to be a hidden Jewish child who had to learn to be an altar boy. He told us what it felt like to be the only hidden Jew in the whole school—but that many years later, he would learn that there were many hidden children there, each one thinking he was the only one. Paul’s story was amazing. But he was even more amazing. I think we all wanted to shake hands with him or hug him, not because of what he suffered, but because of who he is. I asked Jasmine what she meant by that. Many of us wondered how someone who lost so much, and who had the right to be scared or mad even now, could become so happy and fulfilled. He’s like a happy grandpa, and everyone thought that was so cool.

The willingness to share his story, as full of pain as it is, and yet overflowing with hope for the future of young people today, has made Paul a most sought after speaker in hundreds of schools over several decades. His first book, Breaking the Silence – Reminiscences of a Hidden Child, written eight years ago, marked Paul’s unselfish concern for the students who at some point in the future will no longer be able to meet him and be moved by him the way Jasmine was. My book must speak for me, he says, but not yet, he adds with a smile. And speak it does, in Paul’s own style and his authentic voice. In future years, those who cannot meet Paul in person will indeed meet him through his words. They will learn about his early childhood, his beloved parents and grandmother, and they will understand how Paul came to be someone capable of love and compassion. They will learn about his move to a safer haven, his new identity, his new name, and the people who made it possible for him to survive an era of murderous cruelty. They will be moved by his precociousness, his ability to maintain a dual identity even as a child. The gallery of heroes who sheltered and protected Paul also became models for the man he would become. Paul’s story of survival is also a story about coming of age. Lucky the young people who meet him in person—lucky the young people who will meet him through his book.

Jasmine represents so many whose understanding of the Holocaust is humanized and personalized because of the context of one man’s story. And when Jasmine tells us why Paul’s visit was important to her, she provides the rationale for the sequel now in our hands. Many of us wondered how someone who lost so much, and who had the right to be scared or mad even now, could become so happy and fulfilled. He’s like a happy grandpa, and everyone thought that was so cool.

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Paul’s life consists of more than what happened to him in the fateful years of the Holocaust. Certainly, the loss of his beloved Papa could never recede so much into the past that it would be a distant memory. And certainly, the gathered heroes to whom Paul owes his life—and by extension so many newer lives—can never be relegated to just another narrative about a long-ago period. But the story is not complete without Paul’s new gift to this and the next generations—his story doesn’t end with the liberation of Europe. It overlaps with, and begins anew, in the United States. What Jasmine understands, perhaps without knowing it, is that the newer chapters of Paul’s life are also part of the answer to her question. And if or when she reads this new book, she will gain new insights into how Paul not only survived but became the person she so admires.

In this new book, readers will meet through Paul’s narrative many of the people who welcomed him to another new, safer environ. They will read about new goals, new achievements, and new challenges. They will trace Paul’s teaching career, one of his gifts to the next generation, in the form of his presence in so many young people’s lives. They will meet Gail, his beloved wife, the mother of Paul’s two sons—and his cosmic answer to the Nazis—in the form of a new generation of Jews, Jews who would never have been born without the conspiracy of goodness described in Paul’s first book. But like all true accounts, and unlike fairy tales or made-for-TV movies, challenges play a role. Paul’s beloved Gail faces and loses her battle with cancer.

In this new book, Paul’s spirit teaches the readers in the same way his spirit was infused within his career of teaching—we meet Paul’s new love, Sharry, and her amazing extended family, who embrace Paul with the kind of love he had always imagined he would have had if so many of his own extended family had survived. And Paul’s honesty allows him—and his readers—to face history, both global and personal, in unflinching ways. He is unafraid to enumerate frustrations, fears, pain, or disappointment. He also glories in human beings’ capability to give and receive love. His story is at once particular to his own life and universal— about all our lives. We who read both the first and second books get to look not only through a window but into a mirror. How lucky we are.

Jack Weinstein

Director, Facing History and Ourselves

SF Bay Area

510-786-2500, ext. 223

cell 510 409 4777

website: www.facinghistory.org

24301 Southland Dr. Suite 207

Hayward, CA 94545

The future is not a gift: it is an achievement.

Robert F. Kennedy, 1962

In memory of

Friedrich Fritz Schwarzbart

(1902-1945)

my revered and beloved Papa, martyred by the Nazis

Zichrono liv’rachah ~~ may his memory be a blessing.

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In memory of

Sara Ryfka Sidi Schneider Schwarzbart (1908-1969)

my revered and beloved Mutti

Zichrona liv’rachah ~~ may her memory be a blessing.

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In memory of

Gail Gilah Denny Schwarzbart

(1941-1996)

my beloved and devoted wife and mother of our sons,

taken in the bloom of her life

Zichrona liv’rachah ~~ may her memory be a blessing.

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To my deeply cherished wife and collaborator

Sharalee Sharry Springmeyer Schwarzbart

friend, companion and lover, my raison d’être.

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To my beloved sons, each the apple of my eye

Marc Fredric Schwarzbart

David William Schwarzbart

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And to our beloved grandchildren

Jean-Paul (JP) Evan, Kayla Renée,

Reid David, and Sara Mae

Schwarzbart.

May we continue to see them thrive…

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Nine interminable days after leaving Le Havre and enduring the full fury of the Atlantic Ocean, not to mention a long night of wretched bobbing at anchor resulting in another vicious attack of mal de mer, the MS Ronda and its twelve excited passengers at long last sailed slowly past the Statue of Liberty and its incomparable skyline in New York Harbor. A sight I shall never forget, and a truly romantic and long-anticipated welcome to this land of milk and honey and Freedom. The date was December 8th, 1948, some three years after the official conclusion of WWII and the madness of the Shoah. Not until much later was I apprised of the historical significance of the previous day, December 7th, the evening we had actually dropped anchor: no one on board had even mentioned Pearl Harbor, and it wouldn’t have meant anything to me at the time if someone had. Not until we started to study our American history, however, did we learn about that infamous day and the treacherous and horrific attack that launched this country into the war against the Axis. As I am writing these lines for posterity, some sixty-three years later, the Lady has just turned one hundred and twenty-five… Still looks great, perhaps even more so now! A magnificent symbol of Freedom forever…

It had been a very tough crossing for our tiny freighter and therefore for us. The high swells even broke one of the large rectangular portholes in our stateroom. Rough seas and the nauseating smell of diesel, a deadly combination. Whenever I found some respite from the storms, I continued reading Autant en emporte le vent, the French translation of Gone with the Wind, a cherished and thoughtful farewell gift from Robert Stadler, an acquaintance to whom I had expressed my great disappointment at being excluded from seeing the film at its release in Brussels: Enfants Non Admis ~ young people under the age of sixteen were not admitted to the showings because of the great violence of the war scenes! I thoroughly enjoyed reading Margaret Mitchell’s accounts of the War of Secession, as we called it in French; there really was nothing civil about that conflict (forgive me, I couldn’t resist the word play!). The book was just a voluminous paperback; I had it bound by the Society for the Blind, whose industry that was, rather than making brooms, just before leaving Brussels, and the leather spine has held up well all these years. Yellowing paper, though. A faithful translation, by the way. Subsequently I did see and thoroughly enjoy the film at the MGM Theatre on Market Street in San Francisco in 1949 or perhaps 1950.

Only six staterooms on the ship, for six couples. But there happened to be an American woman whose first name was Jean; the ship’s purser thought her to be a man of course, and therefore he put her together with another one. Horrors! So Mutti and I were forced to give up our cabin; she now unwillingly shared it with that young woman, and I had to move in with the only other single guy. A Swiss, no less!

Two friends from Palo Alto did some digging and, in January 2015, handed me a copy of the ship’s manifest of in-bound passengers. Well, it turns out that woman’s name was actually Helen and the whole story was a hoax to make up for their booking mix-up. And all these years I’ve been telling the tale as a perfect example of the danger of mispronouncing and spelling!

There were two stewardesses and a steward to take care of us, or rather to thoroughly spoil us. The young women, statuesque Scandinavian goddesses to this young stud, liked me and provided me with delicious canned pineapple juice (the best beverage I had ever tasted until then) whenever I wished. I still have the autographed souvenir book they so affectionately presented to me upon our arrival in New York.

We dropped anchor to await the upcoming visit of the immigration officials. A prolonged night of bobbing up and down – and yet another bout of mal de mer! That malaise had plagued me mercilessly throughout the crossing, and I had been very much mistaken in thinking it was now behind me. December 8th. A glorious morning. The launch carrying the inspectors pulls alongside about 9:00 am. Matters proceed fairly rapidly; after all, there are only seven visitors, four immigrants (Mutti and I and a Polish couple) and one American on board—plus the crew, of course. So, nothing too involved happening with the inspectors this morning, pretty much routine for so small a group I should imagine. Mutti and I are filled with hope and excitement. Around noon the ship is allowed to proceed to its dock location. We disembark with much more baggage than our three suitcases of worldly possessions and follow the gangplank down. We also bring our character, our sense of morality, our very strong work ethic, and our belief in the basic goodness of people, the core the Nazis could neither steal nor destroy. We have our unflinching commitment to this new country and culture that welcome us with open arms, we hope! We do not kneel to kiss this hallowed ground, but I did indeed think about it! We see Omama and people whom we do not yet know waving joyfully and screaming our names. Winding long passageways to actually reach them. And then we are met, and we are hugged, and we hold each other fast, and we are home at long last and forevermore.

The incredible euphoria of the post WWII era in America, scarcely three and a half difficult years after its painful conclusion. Our eyes and mouths are agape most of the time. Where to direct our gaze? So much to take in, so much emotion, so much wonderment, such plenty, such ecstasy… And the city, endless and behemoth-like, is snow covered. Not all of it white, however. Wow! I’m wearing my best and only suit and coat—with short pants, of course—but my blue knees are accustomed to the cold. We must get you some real trousers, I’m told. OK, at 15 that’s acceptable, though my English is tentative at best—non-existent? —and Macy’s name carries no meaning. And I shall soon learn that things said — albeit well-intentioned -- do not necessarily materialize immediately, or even at all.

We all communicate as best we can. Omama speaks German, Yiddish and English. Mutti has no problem with German, but mine is forgotten or sparse at best. Yiddish works somewhat. So we are taken to 88th Street and Broadway in Manhattan. Splendid and awe-inspiring. Believe it or not, there is even a doorman! The existence of this branch of the Schneider family was not known to any of us. It turns out that Saul was a younger brother of my maternal grandfathers who had left them and his homeland in 1910 to avoid serving in the Austrian army. So here we were, all meeting… Saul, Sadie, their daughters Gladys and Marilyn, and little Helen, sweet child of Gladys. Our very first experience watching television on a concave screen whose edges were therefore blurred—first and last of that kind I’ve ever seen; the programs were bizarre we thought. Some Jewish welfare agency had arranged a room for us in a refugee hotel; there were so many immigrants there, amazing. We had coupons for meals, even for a cup of tea. Strange beginnings, but we were grateful. I met a young G.I. in the huge lobby, barely a few years my senior. I was really in awe of him, because he bragged of being the lover of both a mother