By: Jessica Fliegelman
When my grandfather was alive, I had no interest in hearing his story. His mother and sisters had been murdered, that much I knew, but I knew nothing of his own experience in concentration camps and his journey to America. And I had no desire to know.
My grandfather was a man of few words. When I spoke to him after Shabbos, he said the same thing every week- just be happy and healthy. Our conversations were never extensive. We would sit and watch television together. He would accompany my grandmother and I to the mall, and would sit quietly somewhere in the food court while the two of us shopped.
I learned extensively about the Holocaust growing up. My school made a production of it each year and frequently Holocaust survivors were guest speakers. I attended fundraisers for Yad Vashem and every trip to Washington DC or Israel wasn’t complete without a visit to the Holocaust memorials. Yet I still knew nothing about my own grandfather’s experience.
Right before he passed away, he made a testimonial video with the Shoah foundation. The man who barely uttered a few sentences in each conversation, who left the talking mostly to my bubbly grandmother, suddenly was speaking and speaking. Five hours worth of speaking. When we talk about the value of storytelling, it often seems so abstract. Yet here was my grandfather, fully embracing its value, feeling such an imperative need to let it all out and preserve that testimony. I don’t know how much relief it provided- I didn’t ask. But I know that he had never spoken for five hours, let alone when he was sick and frail.
I still haven’t watched the tape. To be honest, I’m terrified. Despite the countless works of Holocaust literature, the speeches from Holocaust survivors and those museum trips, it all seems incomparable to facing the true horror of what my grandfather, a person I love so very much, went through. I don’t want to know. I want to envision him happy, pain-free, without bottled-up and lasting torment. I promised myself though, at the conclusion of the Holocaust course, that I would have the courage to watch it. I hope that I do. His testimonial truly conveys the powerful nature of storytelling, which goes way beyond the spiritual relief it can provide directly to survivors. Had he not made a tape, had I never asked, I would have forever lost the opportunity to hear his story. That testimonial provides a way for his children, his grandchildren, and so many future generations to listen directly, long after he is gone. It is baffling to me that despite so much evidence to the contrary, there still are individuals who believe the Holocaust is a myth. And as Holocaust survivors continue to pass away, there will soon be no one left to say, “I was there. I experienced it.” These tapes preserve a legacy for the family, for society, for our social conscience so that their stories can never be silenced, even after their deaths, to ensure that we not only remember the tragedy of the Holocaust, but the unique stories of each individual who experienced his own personal tragedy.
