KADDISH
KADDISH
Friday night, my mother lights the Sabbath candles but she does not say the Sabbath prayer. Instead, her head covered with a clean linen cloth, hands shielding her eyes, she intones five names in eerie monotone, her voice wet with tears: Abrams, Alter, Bergmann, Brounstein, Cohen. We sit, heads bowed a silent moment. Then my mother removes her hands from her eyes and they shine star-bright in the candle light. She smiles around the table, and we eat our Sabbath meal. Every Sabbath is the same but for the names. Next week: Duber, Ehrman, Epstein, Feldman. Fink. Before I know who the names belong to, I know them all by heart, an alphabetic ballad: Gelberman, Guthman, Hornstein, Huber, Hess. They are names my mother must remember, for if she does not remember, they never lived, they never died: Immerman, Israel Issacs, Jacobs, Kahn. My mother was a child of the death camps, passed her adolescence there. Survived. The people of the names did not. Levin, Lewitz, Marks, Newmann, Opher. A blue number was burned into my mother's arm: D347950, and, a shameful tattoo, is imprinted there forever. On her mind, imprinted there forever are the names of those sent to the left. To death in the ovens: Rosenberg, Silverman, Sturm, Tannenburg, Taub. The names have a terrible power over me. They echo in my brain, a weird alphabet: Uhelmann, Unterman, Voss, Weinstein, Wax. I am told, in time, the stories of the camps. Every child must know so it will not be allowed to happen again. We must never forget. As I grow older, I hear of children's brains bashed against walls, mutilations, starvation, inhuman beatings. Sickness, darkness, cold, and prayers unanswered. The stuff of nightmares. I survive the nightmares. But the names hold me in awful thrall. Werner, Wessel, Youngman, Yaeger, Zeiss. Names I know from earliest childhood, from even before I was born. Names I know in perfect order but can never say aloud. I form them with my lips each Sabbath Eve when Mother lights the yarzeit candles, and recites the Kaddish in their memory: Axelrod, Buehler, Crystal, Dorff. Hebrew prayer for the dead
Friday night, my mother lights the Sabbath candles but she does not say the Sabbath prayer. Instead, her head covered with a clean linen cloth, hands shielding her eyes, she intones five names in eerie monotone, her voice wet with tears: Abrams, Alter, Bergmann, Brounstein, Cohen. We sit, heads bowed a silent moment. Then my mother removes her hands from her eyes and they shine star-bright in the candle light. She smiles around the table, and we eat our Sabbath meal. Every Sabbath is the same but for the names. Next week: Duber, Ehrman, Epstein, Feldman. Fink. Before I know who the names belong to, I know them all by heart, an alphabetic ballad: Gelberman, Guthman, Hornstein, Huber, Hess. They are names my mother must remember, for if she does not remember, they never lived, they never died: Immerman, Israel Issacs, Jacobs, Kahn. My mother was a child of the death camps, passed her adolescence there. Survived. The people of the names did not. Levin, Lewitz, Marks, Newmann, Opher. A blue number was burned into my mother's arm: D347950, and, a shameful tattoo, is imprinted there forever. On her mind, imprinted there forever are the names of those sent to the left. To death in the ovens: Rosenberg, Silverman, Sturm, Tannenburg, Taub. The names have a terrible power over me. They echo in my brain, a weird alphabet: Uhelmann, Unterman, Voss, Weinstein, Wax. I am told, in time, the stories of the camps. Every child must know so it will not be allowed to happen again. We must never forget. As I grow older, I hear of children's brains bashed against walls, mutilations, starvation, inhuman beatings. Sickness, darkness, cold, and prayers unanswered. The stuff of nightmares. I survive the nightmares. But the names hold me in awful thrall. Werner, Wessel, Youngman, Yaeger, Zeiss. Names I know from earliest childhood, from even before I was born. Names I know in perfect order but can never say aloud. I form them with my lips each Sabbath Eve when Mother lights the yarzeit candles, and recites the Kaddish in their memory: Axelrod, Buehler, Crystal, Dorff. Hebrew prayer for the dead
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Author's Note
This prose-poem had been previously published. Iwasinspired to write it by the Holocaust deniers. When the fewremaining survivors are gone, we must besure there are still some witnesses to this terrible time.
Other stories by marci stillerman
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Powerful!
"... for if she does not remember, they never lived, they never died..." Yes. Oh. yes.
Marci, I once taught at a middle school, and on the anniversary of the Holocaust the name of the those who perished were read aloud by the children. It gave me the chills then, as this piece does now.
Very moving~
I've never been hit so hard by something I've read. Yes, powerful indeed. Thank you. This is more than a reminder; it is an experience. Everyone who reads this will become a witness.
agree with all above
Yes, quite powerful.
This moved me. It reminded me of Yad Vashem.
It's my grandmother's story too. She never talked about it until the 1990s.
(Her, her 2 sisters, their mother, came out of the Camps alive. The rest of the family did not.)
It's stuff that must never be forgotten. More and more, people seem to forget how recent in the world's history it is.
Thank you all for heartfelt comments. Yad Vashem moves me to tears as does in a different way Dachau. And Iraq.
For humanity to survive, this inhumanity must never be forgotten, I agree.
Really powerful and moving, Marci.
So sad. So important. A beautiful lament to something so horrific. My grandmother's family--mother, father, five sisters--died when the Germans invaded Russia.
So sad. So important. A beautiful lament to something so horrific. My grandmother's family--mother, father, five sisters--died when the Germans invaded Russia.
Powerful, well-written story. A true "alphabetic ballad."
A haunting and powerful reminder.
A beautiful, painful prayer. Always keep those who are lost formost in our memories. Peace...
I had chills throughout this entire reading. The incantation of the names of the dead interspersed with your storyline is powerful and terrible. This piece needed to be written. I applaud your courage, Marci
*
this horror will never be forgotten. A brave piece.
A stunning piece, Marci. I always love the recital of names, so that loved ones will not have lived in vain or unremembered.
very moving and powerful.
the recital of the names, like bell tolls.
cover your ears but they remain an undeniable reality.
Shalom ~ Rene
Very strong work. Effective in its form. A moving piece, Marci. Yes.
A story I am all too familiar with. thanks for perpetuating the memory. A lovely piece.
This is the perfect combination of poetry and admonishment to never forget. As a historian of German history (and this was specifically my area of expertise), I am very much moved by this piece. The repetition of the lists of names are effective -- haunting and personal and yet reminding the reader to consider the millions of others too. I do not teach any more, but my tattered copies of Primo Levi, Elie Wiesel, Evgenie Ginzburg (not German, but still a powerful must-read about Stalinist Russia) stay with me... There are so many powerful stories out there, and we need them all. Thank you for writing this; thank you for sharing this.
I want to thank everyone who has commented on Kaddish---Michelle Elvy and all of you. Like Michelle, I have studied the Holocaust, visited the museums, written a children's picture book,Nine Spoons, a Holocaust Story now in its 8th edition and published in many languages including lately Turkish, to do my part in the world to keep the memory of this terrible time alive in the hearts of all human beings. Too easily the stories of our past inhumanities to man, the Crusades, the Inquisition, Apartheid, Slavery become just that, stories, losing their horrified faces in myth. Marci
powerful & painful, super work.
Oh my God I can so relate. But every Holocaust story is different as is every child of survivors and must be told. This is beautifully written with the rhythms of a prayer, truly Kaddish. A fave*