I hate DIVORCE. Most likely my visceral reaction to the “D” word is because I continue to view it through a broken-hearted five-year old’s eyes. The scene is still so vivid in my mind. My mom sat next to me on the couch with her arm draped lovingly over my shoulders. My dad stood and faced us as they began to explain to me that daddy would no longer be living with us. I was my daddy’s baby girl. He was the lap I ran to when I wanted to feel safe, loved and warm…the neck I flung my arms around when I needed to express my own emotions of love. That day, my world was shattered and my heart was broken, just like my family circle.

When it was time for me to get married, I had already witnessed three additional divorces in my immediate family. Some more painful for me to watch and more difficult to understand than others…but each time I felt a sense of loss. As my wedding day drew closer, my inner turmoil grew stronger. I had no doubts at all about how I felt about my fiance, but I did have fears about my familial track record on marriage…was I doomed to end up in divorce just like everyone around me? Of course, one look in my husband’s eyes always made me feel confident that we could weather any storm together.

Now, here I am 32 years into my marriage relationship and unfortunately,  I’ve watched the “D” monster rear its ugly head time and time again splintering the lives of close friends and family members. Last week, when I asked a friend of mine about a mutual girlfriend I hadn’t seen in a while..she said, “Oh, haven’t you heard? Julia and her husband filed for divorce. . .she is really going through hell right now.” Bummer…another family torn apart, a little piece of my heart breaks again. In my little cul-de-sac, two couples broke up over the last year..both with young children who are now being raised primarily by one parent. I watch two of the children as they play, I see the change in their spirit…their once lighthearted play is now hampered by an invisible weight hanging on their conflicted souls. . .mommy is now just a visitor. Another tear falls.

Why? Why is it so difficult for couples to make it work? I wonder how the break down all begins. Everyone starts the same…fall in love, get married, have children. . .etc. So why do those precious marriage vows lose their significance so quickly in many cases? It occurs to me that as parents, we would never consider divorcing our children when they are unreasonable or difficult to live with. On the contrary, we do everything we can to nurture and mend the relationship. So why is there such a double standard in the way we approach the one we promised our heart to…to love, honor and cherish? I am convinced that many times priorities switch as soon as children are brought into the equation. New moms put all their energy into their young child and often have very little left for their spouse at the end of the day. Most men’s love language is very monosyllabic. . .as in “sex”. They feel loved when they are sexually gratified. Their egos, as well as their emotional well-being can take a pretty big hit when they are constantly rebuffed in the bedroom.

We women are looking for gestures of love, little things that let us know they really care…bathing the baby, emptying the dishwasher, picking up a meal for dinner (without being asked)…can completely change our day and melt our heart, making us much more receptive at the end the day for a little love romp. So once again, it all comes back to good communication. People have to learn to tell each other what they need! I wonder why that is so difficult?

Obviously, there are marriages where outside influences such as alcoholism, drug use or abuse slowly destroy the relationship and leave little options for the non-offending spouse. Sadly, in those cases, sometimes divorce is the only option for physical well-being and peace of mind.

So, what can I do? How can I make a difference? I try to always be available to lend an ear and truly listen when others are in turmoil. I can offer advice from lessons I’ve learned when someone asks for it. And, I can continue to offer up my thoughts in writing on LuvYa.com. If even just one person gets a little help or encouragement from my words, every minute spent in front of the computer will have been worth it. And finally, I can love my husband unconditionally and lead by example.

 Beauty Beyond the Traditions. . .

During this wonderful time of the year, I find myself being thankful for a multitude of blessings. Every morning when I open the shutters it seems there is another colorful blossom to greet me. Although my nasal passages do not approve of the seasonal delights, my other senses are overjoyed. My husband and I have been taking great joy in the brightly colored cardinal who has been frolicking outside our office window. Soon after our cherry tree released its pink blossoms to float like pink snow to the ground, the white azaleas that line our front and backyard bloomed overnight. Spring in Charlotte, is definitely a sight to behold.

April not only ushers in a time of beautiful flowers and lush green grass, but a time of spiritual renewal and reflection. It is at this time of year that I become especially thankful for the diversity of my friendships and the blessing I receive from viewing this most holy week from two different perspectives. Leading up to Passover, my Jewish friends are busy preparing for company, bringing out special plates and cookware, cooking flourless cakes, making matzoh balls and many other Kosher delights, while setting the stage to reenact a tradition celebrated for thousands of years. In fact, the very same tradition that Jesus, as an observant Jew, repeated at the Last Supper in the upper room.

Fortunately, and much to my delight, my Jewish friends have invited me several times to enjoy this amazing feast and celebration. For me, a protestant Christian girl from Oklahoma, having the opportunity to enjoy Passover has made the Old Testament story of the exodus from Egypt leap off the pages (kind of like the difference between seeing a movie in black and white on an 18 inch TV versus viewing it in 3D in an IMAX theater.) Before this experience, my view was more aligned with Cecil B. DeMille’s hollywood version depicted in the motion picture epic “The Ten Commandments.”  Experiencing the “several thousand-year old” live version, has been much more impactful and spiritually moving.

When I was a little girl (brought up in a non-religious home) this particular weekend was all about that magical morning when I would awaken to find what the Easter bunny had left me. Of course the jelly beans and chocolate bunny propped upon the green crinkled grass delighted me, but it was the stuffed soft furry animal that accompanied the basket that brought me the most joy. As I grew up and began to seek for truth and develop a strong desire to know God, Easter took on a different meaning. I was only about eight years old the first time I saw the movie “The Robe”. In the movie, as Jesus was being nailed to the cross and the Roman guard was gripping his scarlet robe in his arms, my heart was aching causing my eyes to release rivers of guilt and sorrow. Traumatic and emotionally jarring as the scene was to my young psyche, the truth was, the message gripped my soul and I remember at that moment, I was forever changed.

Today, my spiritual journey has taken me to an unexpected place of peace and love not ever captured on the big screen or outlined in a few verses of Times New Roman text. Converging two different worlds of man’s story of who God is and all that concept entails, has reduced me to a single human emotion. . .love. . .and for that, once again, I am truly thankful.

Happy Spring Awakening to all of you!

I

We all feel blessed when we recognize our parents passed on their wonderful talents and gifts through their DNA, such as the ability to create beautiful art, sing an aria, perform amazing athletic feats or to solve intricate mathematical equations. But one gift I am especially thankful for was not part of my genetic make-up, but rather a gift my mother gave me - unknowingly, by her life example.

When I was ten years old, my mom moved our family to a very small rural town in Oklahoma. It was the summer of 1969 and although the schools had been integrated, the town itself was still segregated by law. Black residents were not allowed to live on the north side of the train tracks, forcing them to exist in a part of the city which had no indoor plumbing or running tap water. Soon after we arrived, my mother landed a job at the hospital as a purchasing agent. After a few short weeks, she became close friends with a co-worker in her office. Her name was Cora, she was a single mother of a little boy. . .she lived with her parents and several other family members in a little three room house on the south side of the tracks. My mom’s best friend was black, and even though it was 1969 and she had a good job with good pay at the hospital, she was not allowed (at that time) to be our neighbor and enjoy a simple thing like an indoor toilet.

That summer between my 5th and 6th grade year, as well as the next, Cora’s mother offered to take care of me while my mom worked full-time. My days were filled with chasing chickens around the yard, learning how to dance (soul-train style) and doing typical kid stuff (playing tag and hide and seek). I remember the first time I had to use the outhouse – I pinched my nose together with my thumb and index finger and looked around at the four wooden walls. Light was streaming in through cracks and holes - time and weather had left - in the gray wood slats. I prayed no peeking eyes were staring in at me. As soon as I was finished with my business, I pushed the door open and ran out to play with my new friends. . .quickly forgetting the unpleasant odor, no trauma or anxiety, just childish acceptance of my new surroundings (amazing how the world looks through a child’s eyes). Although my presence was certainly a spectacle in the neighborhood, I was never made to feel different or like I stood out (which I definitely did). I became part of the family…and I have wonderful memories from that time in my life. Early in the 70′s, the city managers finally passed a new (much belated) law allowing anyone, regardless of race, to live wherever they wanted. Cora, and her sister, moved into a lovely, new apartment just down the street from us. My mother was elated.

Later in life, I realized my mother had given me a unique and precious gift that would stay with me for the rest of my life . . .the gift of color blindness. As I entered into adolescence and adulthood, the gift would not only serve to broaden my horizons and social outlook, but would actually blossom into a rather quirky personality characteristic - I possess a stalker-like attraction to anyone from a different country, who has a unique accent, different language, culture or religious background. Early in our marriage, my husband worked for a Dutch company, so I studied Dutch for several years. Much to my amazement, I was able to converse with some of the wives when they came to the United States. Now he works for an Italian company, so I have spent many hours listening to “How To Speak Italian” CD’s while driving in my car . . “come stai, molto bene, grazie!”

Fortuitously, my job as a fitness instructor has allowed me to interact with people from all over the world – which for me, is so friggin cool! Just two weeks ago, I had three ladies from Russia, two ladies from Japan and two from Israel in one class – truly fantastic. My class – which is done in a circle – is just a small representation of our world today. I feel so incredibly fortunate to work in an environment where my so-called “box” is daily expanded. If I had not been given the gift at such an early age, perhaps I would be striving hard to pull them into my narrow space, but because my mom was a very open-minded, accepting person, I find myself enveloped in a world of nuance, cultural beauty and colorful celebration. Now, it is up to me and the rest of us, to make sure this type of societal color blindness,  is passed on to our children. For this gift I have to say…merci, grazie, gracias, spasibo, danke and finally, THANK YOU!! 

According to Myers-Briggs personality assessments, I am an ESFP, whereas my beloved is an INTJ.

In addition to our polar opposite genetics, we came from drastically different family environments. My husband was raised by parents whose style of parenting tended to be controlling, subsequently, he often felt that perfection was demanded of him. This left my husband with very low self-esteem as a young adult. On the other hand, I was raised by my divorced mother, who I’m pretty sure didn’t have the word “structure” in her vocabulary. My mother also struggled with bipolar disorder her entire adulthood and my father (who I only lived with for half of my Junior year in high school) was a functioning alcoholic. In spite of her own inner turmoil, my mother worked hard to instill a strong sense of self and taught me to be an independent thinker.  The result? My husband came into the marriage “compelled to control”, and even though it took me several years to discover it…because of my unstable childhood, I was compelled to accommodate and enable him. Fortunately, Kev’s desire to control was overwhelmingly dwarfed by his overriding desire to change, grow and have a loving, thriving relationship.

I laugh to myself when I think back at how many times he said, “you have to tell me when I’m being an ass…I’m a selfish pig-man, I need your help…etc.” As funny as that statement was, it didn’t change the fact that I had to work very hard at learning how to “speak up” in the moment when I felt offended, as opposed to my habit of burying it deeply, only to have it erupt later with very little provocation. Through the years, and after hours and hours of sometimes tear-filled discussions, we both evolved and learned how to interact with one another knowing each other’s expectations and areas of hyper-sensitivity. Funny how it is that such shallow tears always seem to lead to deeper waters.

The intriguing thing is, amidst all of our opposite personality characteristics, we have always shared so many similar interests. We have virtually the same sense of humor (Airplane, Austin Powers, Seinfeld, Modern Family at the top of our entertainment humor list), we both love sports, enjoy jigsaw puzzles and playing board games – and as of late - Texas Hold-em. Spiritually we have always been on the same page, which ultimately, I believe has been the glue that has held us together through thick and thin.

So, after all these years of navigating the turbulent waters of life together, this ESFP and my sweet INTJ, have morphed into something altogether different from the narrowly defined “Entertainer” and “Scientist”. In fact, if we both sat down and took the Myers-Briggs personality assessment today, I’m pretty sure the outcome would be totally different. I know he has helped me become a much more intuitive and thinking person, and he definitely attributes his noticeable change in social skills to hanging out with me.

No doubt opposites do attract, but as I have discovered, it is truly the areas you enjoy together that will help your relationship stand the test of time.

First Comes Lust

Most likely, whether you believe in love at first sight or not, is largely based on your own personal experience with love and romance. Actually, the whole idea is sort of a misnomer…because if anything, everyone knows we fall “in lust” at first sight. In other words, when pheromones and physical attraction collide, infatuation happens and we humans have labeled that phenomenon - “love at first sight.”

It is this potent mixture that makes us want to be together with the object of our affection..over and over again. Intoxicating and addictive, that crazy infatuation hormonal rush offers the same effect as any drug, a lover’s high, if you will. Then, as fate would have it, occasionally lightning strikes during the lust-filled stage and something mystical happens. Next thing you know, you wake up one day to find yourself deeply in love.

Then Comes Love

This “love awakening” happened to my husband and me over 30 years ago, and not too long after our first kiss. Our connection was quick, deep and spiritual. At this point, we had no choice, no earth-shaking decisions…no, “I don’t know…is he/she really the one?”  This whole idea is such a foreign concept to the both of us. We have always told our kids and our single friends who are struggling in relationships, “if you are asking yourself that question before you say “I do”, you already have your answer.”  When you have met your soul-mate, the one you intend to spend the rest of your life with…there are no dangling doubts and bewildering questions about your choice. You can’t help yourself! You have to be together.  In our case, it was actually painful to be apart (and still is today).  So, our reason for getting married at only 20 years old, wasn’t necessarily a decision based on logic, perfect circumstances and financial planning  – we got married because we couldn’t bear to spend one more day (well, more specifically, one more night) apart.  Indeed… compelled by love – we had NO choice.

Then Comes Marriage . . .and the Baby Carriage

After we tied the proverbial knot, “life” as they say, slowly turned that “take your breath away” high into a comfortable steady state of companionship. In my experience, it’s not that the sexual attraction wanes, but rather the intensity of lustful desire that changes. Because honestly, that type of amped-up sexual frenzy is totally related to “newness”.  No doubt there is a honeymoon phase, but no matter how long it lasts, the “newness” inevitably wears off.

Then. . .The Paradigm Shift

Somewhere between falling head over heels in love and taking your firstborn home from the hospital, a paradigm shift takes place. Love is no longer an all-consuming emotion that compels you to do crazy things. In fact, the powerful force that caused you to leave and cleave, quickly becomes a daily, perhaps even a moment by moment decision you make. Love becomes a CHOICE.

Currently, for us, “choosing” translates into a multi-layered plan of action. Firstly, we work hard to speak to one another with a tone of respect. This one – especially in a heated conversation – takes lots of practice. It is so easy to drift into a habit of speaking to one another in annoying, demeaning tones – especially if there are a lot of unaddressed issues. Years ago during a particularly emotion-filled argument, I pointed out to my husband that he would never even think of talking to his boss or coworkers the way he was talking to me – his wife – the one he should love more than anyone. He was stunned with the truth of that statement. He agreed and apologized. Obviously, I also had to be reminded of that “truth” as well many times over our 32 year marriage.  Through the years, we have both been known to say, “Excuse me…but I’m not so sure you want to be speaking to me that way, start over again, and I will be more open to hear what you have to say.”

In addition to checking our tone, we have pro-actively declared war on “hot buttons”.  Hot buttons are those pesky – relationship destroying – unaddressed issues I referred to earlier. It has taken us years to identify our hot buttons. Interestingly enough, many of them are related to childhood stuff that we brought into the marriage. For example, the perception that I am not being respected or heard (youngest of three), can send me into a tizzy.  My husband’s number one hot button is related to self deception…if he thinks that in any way I am not being honest with myself in a situation, he basically loses all patience and goes into relentless, detailed “talk-it-out” mode. Both of these hot buttons relate to “perceived injustices” we experienced growing up.  Choosing to love, has meant identifying all of our hot buttons and then doing the work necessary to get rid of them.

Putting things into proper perspective is another “choice” lesson we have learned along the way. For example, is loading the dishwasher the “right way” really more important than loving your spouse in that moment? Do those little stupid things warrant ridicule, criticism and using that “you’re such an idiot” tone of voice? Honestly, do you actually want to elevate your idea of how things should be done above nurturing feelings of love and respect? If each of us took a second to evaluate the situation…of course we would all answer no. Laid back personalities don’t really struggle too much with this one, but controlling, perfectionists have a tougher time, but with a little help, a lot of reminders and much practice. . .proper perspective can be obtained.

On a positive note, speaking words of love throughout the day is definitely a prudent choice, in addition to remembering the three magic words (you so avidly teach your children). . .please, thank you and I’m sorry.  After 32+ years of working at this love thing…my hubby and I both agree that in order to truly cherish one another and keep passion in our marriage, we must remain diligent to “choose” to love one another in all situations.

So, is love a choice? In the beginning, when it hits you like a ton of bricks, not so much. But after the novelty fades away, in order to have a thriving relationship, filled with love and respect that will endure and last a lifetime – most definitely!

Utter Defiance

Susan "17" and her Father

Shortly after arriving at Thereisenstadt, mother and daughter faced their turn for the selection process. As fate would have it, one of the administrators choosing whether you stayed or went to the “East”, was Susan’s former gymnastics coach, Fredy Hirsch. He had been assigned the job of youth welfare administrator by the Nazis. As soon as he recognized Susan and her mother he told them they would be staying. However, Freidl was more concerned about being with her lover, Rudi Guth. She asked if he would also be staying. Fredy informed her that was impossible due to the fact that he was not part of the family. Hearing this, Freidl exclaimed, “then we don’t stay either.” Susan relives one of the moments that saved her life.

“To this day I don’t know where I suddenly found the courage to defy my mother for the first time in my life. I said …No, I am staying! If you want to you can stay with me, but I am staying. Her love for Rudi was stronger than her love and concern for me.

Susan told her mother they would meet up again for Christmas at the Prasna Brana. Those would be the last words she would say to her mother. Almost 50 years later while visiting the Auschwitz Museum with her three children, Susan located the transport lists that contained her mother’s name. The decision not to stay with her daughter that fateful day at Theresienstadt, ended her up on a train that took her directly to the gas chambers of Sobibor, not to the arms of her lover.

During her eight months stay at Theresienstadt, Susan would locate many of her friends from Prague, make new friends and fall in love with Dr. Ernstl Fuchs.

“It was a wonderful time for me despite the fact that we were incarcerated in a camp run by the Nazis. Being in love was important in Theresienstadt, though the object of one’s affection might change. It was important to have someone who could help with providing some extra food, which Ernstl could do, working in the hospital in the Sudeten barracks.

The extra food that Ernstl would provide was cooked up on a little pot-bellied stove by Susan and her best friend, Lilly. This little luxury would prove to be the two girl’s passport to hell. Upon discovering the supposed “stolen” stove in Susan and Lilly’s possession, the two friends were immediately called up for transport to Birkenau. Susan remembers that having to say goodbye to Ernstl felt like the worst feeling she had experienced up until that point in her life. However, nothing in her young life could have prepared her for the next part of her journey, which she describes in her book as literally a trial by fire.

Auschwitz-Birkenau

After a two-day long journey huddled together on wooden benches inside a cold, dark enclosed compartment, Susan and her fellow prisoners arrive at their destination.

“The train stopped, the doors were flung open and the very first impression was a smell, or more accurately, a repulsive stink, seemingly emanating from a smokestack in the background of the train, its flames topped by black swirling clouds. We found ourselves standing on what appeared to be a fairly wide railroad platform, bordered on both sides by long barbed wire fences.

The scene of terror, often seen in documentaries or Holocaust recreations, began with the women being lined up separate from the men. The SS men in their tailored uniforms positioned themselves directly in front of the line of women, posed and ready for inspection.

“They surveyed the first row of women standing in front of them. Some women in the row were sent to the tarp-covered trucks lined up on the ramp in front of the ambulance. The rest were told they would walk. I was standing well back in the column and could observe that a certain pattern seemed to evolve. Girls under 14 or 15, or if they looked under that age, and women over 35-40, would go by truck.  All children with their mothers in the column went into the truck as well.  I remember thinking: “How lucky they are to be able to ride. Now we remnants will have to walk God knows how far.” At that point those of us left standing did not realize what we learned all too soon – that the trucks took the women and children chosen “to ride” directly to the gas chamber and the crematorium.”

Out of the original 500 or so women transported, Susan and 61 others remain. After being herded like sheep into empty barracks with nothing more than a dirt floor, the dehumanization process began. First, each woman was stripped of any jewelry or valuables. Next, the women were marched into a large room with recessed windows, each one marked by a young SS man on guard patrol. In front of the young male guards, the woman were ordered to strip completely.

“Again, I can only say, I must have been in shock, feeling as if I was standing outside of myself observing the proceedings. I calmly took off all my clothes and the felt boots I was wearing. Then we were shorn from top to bottom of all body hair. This was supposedly for hygienic purposes, but in reality if was just one of the numerous processes calculated to demean and dehumanize the person, so that no dignity, self-esteem, or a sense of the need for self-preservation would be left.”

Naked, cold and shorn from head to toe, the women were forced into the shower room where they underwent a one minute ice-cold power-wash. No towels were offered to dry their shivering bodies only brash orders to move on to the next station. They would dry their wet skin with their new prison garments…rags sewn from captured Russian soldiers’ uniforms. Shoes, were not a given.

“If we were unlucky, we got clogs. Clogs rubbed the foot, caused open sores, resulted in infection, in gangrene, in death. Lucky me; I got shoes, high-tops, if I remember correctly.

Next came the most demeaning step in the Nazi’s exertion of their notorious humiliation tactics . . .the original mark of the beast. . .the tattoo.

“Depending on who did the tattooing, women prisoners trained in doing this, we either got a large sloppy five-digit number or a small neat five-digit number. Either one had a triangle underneath . . .there was no triangle under the Jewish number. Then the SS discovered that identifying a naked Jewish woman was not as easy as identifying a naked Jewish man who stood out from the others by being circumcised, and unless they looked Semitic or of Mediterranean type, women had no identifying mark. And if they were blue-eyed to boot, and hairless, there was no way to distinguish them from Aryan women. Therefore, triangles were tattooed under the number of all Jewish women new arrivals, after November of December 1942.

Following the strip-down, shaving, icy shower, issuance of rags, and the permanent ink reminder that they were just a number…came the handing over of the bowl. The psychological message was clear to the Nazis’ captives. . .in our eyes, you are nothing but dogs.

” . . .we were handed the bowl, a brick-red metal bowl about 10 inches wide and about 5 inches deep. This bowl, as we all too soon realized, was the only utensil we were given: no knife, no fork, no spoon , no cup, no saucer, no plate. There were also no toothbrushes, handkerchiefs, towels, nor combs. In a word, we were totally deprived of any civilized accessories; another fiendishly clever aspect of the Nazis’ plan to totally dehumanize their victims, which of course, led to mental dehumanization as a consequence. It reduced the prisoner’s self-esteem, her self-awareness, in short her humanity, to zero, preparing her for the quick descent into what in the camp jargon was called the “Muselmann” state (zombie) which designated her as ready for the gas.”

Death-Defying Stupidity

On day two at Birkenau, Susan impetuously stepped out of line and did something that could have ended her life that day. She dared to speak to the SS men on watch. Once again, her assertive spirit and ability to think fast on her feet, would keep her alive.

“Don’t ask me what prompted me to do it – was it sheer stupidity, or simply ignorance of the rules? – I stepped out of my row of five…stood at attention and said to the SS-men: “Melde gehorsamst Ich bin eine Bureaukraft” (With your permission, I would like to report that I am an officer worker!) Only later was I told that what I had done could have just as easily bought me a trip to the gas chamber…”

Apparently her aggressive style of self promotion did not issue in negative results. In fact, just a few days later, Susan was assigned work duty in one of the barracks outside the main gate. The barracks housed the offices of the Stabsgebaude, the staff building of the main camp where all the administrative work for the entire camp complex was carried out. This work detail allowed her to get a hot shower, fresh clothes and even new shoes. Unfortunately her stay in the office would be brief and in March of 1943 she was returned to the unending horror of Birkenau.

“Not long after returning from the Stabsgebaude, I began running the dreaded fever, the first sign of typhus, a disease spread by lice. Gastroenteritis followed. Every morning for roll call, I would stand between two of the women and they would practically hold me up…I remember them practically carrying me through the selection, that at that time, took place every morning and every night. I certainly looked like a Muselmann: concave in places where female bodies were supposed to be convex, with big eyes and a long nose in a skeleton face. But I distinctly recall keeping my eyes wide open and trying for what must have been a hideous grin to prove that I was not the apathetic, shuffling, Muselmann, ready for the gas.”

Over the next year, Susan would survive rape (with the promise of food she was lured by a guard into a store-room), venereal disease after the attack, near starvation leading to several brushes with death. Once again, her skills and intellect would prove to be her salvation. The same officer who she had so boldly approached on day two of her arrival, would offer her a new job detail.

“As I came in front of him, he smiled and said, “Ah, the office worker; how about you working in Kanada for a while?” And that is where I went, to Kanada, the most desirable work detail in all of Birkenau. . .Kanada was the elite work detail of the women’s camp as well as the men’s camp. It was the place where everything was available if we were careful enough not to get caught smuggling “organized items into the camp.

Death March and Finally Liberation 

Late in the year of 1944, Susan writes that rumors of Germany’s demise were swirling throughout the camp. Revolts occurred in the crematorium, those caught were hung in front of the entire camp. On the night of January 17, 1945 the orders to evacuate the entire Auschwitz complex were set in motion…evacuation meant the prisoners were going for a long walk, later it would be referred to as the “Death March.” As Susan recalls, the march took at least two days and two nights. The frozen snow-covered roads in the forest quickly became lined with bodies. The order was – “Bullet in the head to those who cannot walk.” Susan and her close group of 15 women from the Kanada work detail, clung together. Their destination was yet another train…to yet another camp, Ravensbruck, the only women’s concentration camp in the Reich.

“There the prisoner housing was luxurious compared to what had been provided in Birkenau for the main women’s camp. Here each of the women had a bed – I can’t recall whether they were two level bunk beds or single beds – but they had sheets, blue and white checked, and pillowcases and blankets.

A few months later, April 28 to be exact, the women were once again on foot, fortunately it was Spring and the weather was much more agreeable. This time, no one seemed to know where they were going. Susan believed they were marching west, in her opinion, the Nazis seemed only to be interested in getting them to the American lines – or more like it – themselves to the Americans, knowing full well if they ran into the Russians they would be shown no mercy.

“I seem to remember that we marched all the way through that first night. I see us on a paved road, with the moon lighting our way as we marched in a ragged formation, the three guards sticking close to us to make sure we 15 were all together.  – The morning of May 1st, while we marched on a two-lane highway, surrounded by Germans fleeing the Russians, it seemed as if all of the eastern part of Germany was on the road. Suddenly a motorcycle with sidecar, driven by a soldier, roared by, and he yelled as loud as he could “The Fuhrer is dead!” We’re free now, we shouted.”

A strange vehicle approached, Susan noticed the words “Daisy-Mae” right below the windshield. She knew they had finally run into the Americans. She was the only one in the group who spoke some school English. . .she approached the soldier and asked if he could please liberate them. She rolled up her sleeve to expose the tatoo and explain who they were and where they had been. After disarming the Germans who escorted the young women, he instructed them to continue walking to the town up ahead where they would find the Americans taking charge. When the girls finally arrived at the American checkpoint, they were greeted with total confusion. The soldiers had no idea what to do with them and told them to return to where they came from.

“I rolled up my sleeve and the rest of us did as well, and said: “I don’t think so! We come from Aushwitz and Ravensbruck.” They just stared at us, had no idea what we were saying, until an interpreter informed them. . .”these girls were extermination camp prisoners, they have no place to go.” So they told us…go into the village ahead and ask the commanding officer of our outfit what you should do. . .we walked the five or ten minutes on the dusty country road to the village. I was a strange feeling close to claustrophobia. This was the first time in three years that I had walked without a guard, without being told where to go. . .without fences or guards around me. A very strange feeling.”

Susan "Free" in 1945

Upon arrival, Susan and the others received a dental check-up, fresh clothes, etc. Once again, Susan was offered a job – this time as an interpreter for the counter intelligence group. This skill would land her in her first private bedroom in three years. After a conversation about former Jews she knew and inquiring about their fate, she discovered her father was still alive and living in Brussels. The APO immediately wired relatives who wired her father. Susan would not get in touch with her father directly until July or August of 1945, right before she went to Brussels.

“In July of 1945, I received permission to enter Belgium and took the train to Brussels. With my schoolgirl French I managed to find the right trolley car and get out at the right stop, Avenue Tervueren, and found the apartment house where my father lived, in the rue Vandenbussche, went up the stairs, and rang the bell. He opened the door. He had not changed at all. It was an emotional reunion; I think we both cried. It had been almost 6 years since he had left Prague and since both of our lives had taken frightful as well as miraculous turns, that kept us both alive.”

Susan completes the saga of her survival with the retelling of her coming to America, getting married and setting the course for the rest of her life.

After reading her book, I knew how much of a distinct honor it was that I now had the opportunity to spend time with her, to pose my own gnawing questions, to try to come to grasp with the kind of human spirit and will that could overcome such atrocities. I sit outside the window of the exercise room – she does not know that I am watching – and I watch her perform her weekly Tai Chi class. Her almost 90 year-old body moves in beautiful fluidity, as if encased in invisible water. I marvel at her strength, her wisdom, her beauty. And the only emotion that comes is gratitude……extreme gratitude.

If you wish to read Susan’s book, she has informed me that the best way to buy it is through her. You may leave your email in a message and she will contact you with the details..price etc.

The Link:  http://lovingfilm.com/about-the-film/

Forget the chocolates and flowers . . .for me, this is what Valentine’s Day is all about !

Have a Beautiful Night celebrating with the one you love . . .

Susan, the daughter of Ernst and Freidl Eckstein, was born in 1922 in Vienna. Like all little girls, Susan grew up with many dreams for her life and hopes for her future. While Freidl passed on her incredible intelligence and audacious (although late to bloom) spirit to her daughter, it was her father who gave her a love for the arts, especially dance. At an early age, Susan was lacing up toe shoes with the intention and dedication of a prima ballerina. In 1929, the Ecksteins moved to Berlin, where Susan had the opportunity to attend ballet school. There were only two other Jewish girls in her class, Hanni and Ruth. At the tender young age of 11 years old, Susan would witness first-hand why her father always said “to be equal as a Jew we have to be better.”

“Ruth was the best gymnast in our class, better than any of the blonde valkyries. When they had to eliminate her from competition, because she was Jewish, the team did not win any more prizes as they had when Ruth was in the group. I can only imagine that this happened because the school did not want to have a Jewish-looking athlete in the competition. After all, Jews were not supposed to be athletes, according to the German propaganda.”

Back to Vienna

While most Jews in Germany were standing in line to emigrate overseas, much to Susan’s dismay, the Ecksteins invested good money to move back to Vienna to renovate her grandmother’s apartment. This decision in Susan’s words, would prove to be the fait accompli . . .playing right into the Nazi’s hands and Austria’s complicit role in Hitler’s take over. While Susan was going about the business of being a teenager - studying , experiencing her first “french” kiss and attending her first ball – the mood as well as the scenery, was changing daily in Austria. Her parents worked hard to shield her from the growing anti-semitic displays. For the most part, she only heard about the despicable behavior because her mother did not allow her to go into town where most of the incidents occurred.

“Contrary to revised post-war history, not only did the Austrians receive the Nazis with great joy and enthusiasm, they also went to work on anti-Semitic excesses with a fervor that had not been seen in the Reich itself since the Nazis took power in 1933. – The gleeful anti-Semitism displayed by the population found its outlet in vicious delights, such as making Jews scrub the sidewalks, which had been covered with Schuschnigg propaganda . . .they would stop anyone who even in the least looked Jewish, without asking for identification, and force him or her to do these demeaning activities. They would stop men with beards if they looked Jewish, and would cut, or even rip, the beards off them in the street.”

While Susan’s father was taking care of business in Prague, the Gestapo came to their apartment.  It was the last time that they would see their belongings. Susan and her mother were both issued exit visas and put on the next flight to Prague, with only two little suitcases in hand.

Susan at 14 years old

Refugees in Prague

An hour after boarding the flight, Susan and her mother were greeted by her father at the airport and taken into the city by taxi. The taxi stopped in front of their new apartment house. Their neighbors were Austrian and German refugees who had all left their former homes and everything in them behind. Knowing that it could have been much worse, they were all grateful for the shelter of their small flats. Over the next few years while sharing a small space with her mother and father, and eventually with other families, Susan blossomed into a young woman. She fell in love for the first time and experienced a somewhat normal life, as normal as it could be for a refugee living in fear of what might be coming around the next corner. Sensing the pending doom,  Susan’s father made arrangements illegally for the family to cross the Polish-Czech border, but due to her mother’s insistence it would be too dangerous for all of them to go, he left alone with the intention of providing safe passages for her and her mother in the near future. That day never came.

Deportation

In April of 1942, Freidl and Susan Eckstein received their transportation notice. As though hell itself had printed out a guest list, they were informed, in writing, that they would be escorted to the fairgrounds.

“And thus it was that Mother and I received a very polite card informing us that were going on transport on May 7; that we could take 50 kg of luggage, a bedroll and food for two days, and that we had to leave all our other property in place.”

May 9, 1942, mother and daughter arrived in Theresienstadt. They were sent to the Hohenelbe barracks, part of the hospital compound for the so-called quarantine, which later Susan would come to understand was actually a guise for the “selection” process.

Susan and her Mother

“It was only the administrative and professional hierarchy of Thereseinstadt that came to examine every new transport, and “selected” who was to stay and who was to go on to the “East.” At the time no one knew what “the East” meant. But those who did go “East” . . . .were never heard from again.”

   . . .to be continued, Watch for Part 3 in the following week

The Meeting   Part 1 of a 3 Part Series

Until just a few years ago, when I thought about the atrocities and horrors of the Holocaust, like most Americans, my mind was limited to what might be a considered a vicarious “Schindler’s List” type of experience. I perused the History Channel for documentaries on the subject, visited the Holocaust museum in Washington D.C., and watched each and every Hollywood version on the big screen. Up until I met Susan Cernyak-Spatz, the most personal experience as a non-Jewish outsider looking in, was my hauntingly surreal trek up to the steps of the Anne Frank house in Amsterdam. As I rounded the corner, fear gripped my chest and my heart began to pound into my ear drums. I realized each step I took, my shoes were striking the exact same brick path the Nazi soldiers, only a few decades before, marched across to capture their intended prey. I could see their uniforms, hear the sound of their strident boots marking time with death, as if in a trance. . .I could smell the fear. My mind went back to Anne’s own account from her treasured diary, in that moment, I was transferred back in time.

The first time I saw Susan, she visited a fitness class I was teaching at the Jewish Community Center. In instructor mode, I was (as always) animated, giddy and probably a little frivolous. Susan walked in and joined the class already in progress. I introduced myself to her. That’s when my eyes saw it – 34042 branded forever on her arm – knowing exactly what that meant, I found myself suddenly thrown into an internal meltdown. Shocked into sobriety, I struggled to speak and cue the next move. Within minutes, she left . . .turns out she was in the wrong class. After it was over, some of the students shared her identity with me. She was Dr. Susan Cernyak-Spatz, professor at UNC Charlotte, Holocaust survivor and well-known lecturer on the subject.

Several years later, in the midst of channel surfing for something decent to watch on T.V., I saw a familiar face come across the screen. It was Dr. Cerynyak-Spatz. She was lecturing to a group of students at the University. My hand froze on the remote. . .I was transfixed. Hearing her tell just a portion of her personal story, left my hungry to know more. I want the reality to sink into my bones, I desperately want to find some inkling of comprehension of the human condition which was capable of such evil. I pray I get a chance to get to know her.

Not long after that, I walked into the JCC, only to find her sitting at a table outside of the aerobic room. I approached her, introduced myself and began a conversation. I invited her to attend my Therapeutic Ballean class which would give me the opportunity to give her more individual attention. Much to my delight, she attended the very next class. At 89 years young, she was amazingly strong, flexible and of course, fearless. Because the format includes hands on stretches and massage, I got to touch the permanent reminder of her hell on earth. As my hand gently swept across her tatoo, I felt my throat clinch, I quickly turned my head away to fight back the tears. If I could have, I would have embraced her arm for hours. . .as if trying to receive a glimpse of history through osmosis. I felt overwhelmed, blessed and even more determined to connect. Fortunately for me, she enjoyed the class and announced she would be attending as often as she could. I asked her where I could buy a copy of her book,”Protective custody Prisoner 34042.” She brought me a copy the next class and thus began my journey of what I consider to be the ultimate privilege – the opportunity to get up close and personal, face to face and soul to soul with an eye-witness to the most heinous, unspeakable war crimes in modern-day history - I am honored, completely humbled and inspired beyond my utmost expectations.

Coming Soon: Part 2  THE BOOK, complete with pictures of young Susan and her parents. 

When my husband shared the story with me, it naturally made me pause and think about my own father. My last conversation with my dad was only a year ago – just a few hours later after we said our goodbyes, he passed away peacefully in the middle of the night.

In the midst of missing him and mourning my loss, I’ve visited many memories – some sweet, some bittersweet. Throughout the day, pictures of my dad’s life – a young handsome sailor to an 83 year old great grandfather – randomly pop up on my computer slideshow. With the visual backdrop, searching for the “one word” to describe my dad proved not to be so difficult, in fact, as I really observed each captured freeze frame, a common thread began to emerge. It was so obvious, at least from this baby daughter’s perspective, if confined to one word to describe my dad, for me it would have to be . . . “loving”.

Truly, I’m not blind to the fact my dad had flaws and may have been selfish in some ways – but in the area of affection he was more than generous. His arms (always available for hugs) and his kisses (sometimes rebuffed)  – sealed every hello and goodbye. Over the course of his life my father struggled with many personal demons. Which is why I am positive if you asked my three siblings the same question, they would all come up with a different one word descriptor for my dad. In many ways, he was his own worst enemy, perhaps a character flaw that the artist/lover personality types share. Interestingly, I have observed many of the same traits in my son.

Upon deeper reflection, it occurs to me that my perception of my father as “loving”, has been colored not only by my dad’s displays of affection, but also by my own personality, filters and role I played in his life. Since I was only five years old when my parents divorced, I have no scarring memories (at least consciously) of their often tumultuous interaction. I grew up oblivious to his personal approach toward parenting, discipline or perhaps lack thereof.  Time spent with my dad meant fun-filled activities, cool restaurants and shopping sprees. In a sense, from birth until the day he passed away, I was the baby daughter who climbed into his lap and flung my arms around his neck.

In the last few days, I have posed this same question to a few of my friends.  The answers have covered a broad spectrum, from “harsh” and “bully” to “aloof” and “pleasant”. If the first word that comes to mind is negative, perhaps it would be helpful to take the time to identify at least two positive attributes which could allow a different reality to take shape and emotional healing to begin. No matter what one word comes to light, I believe, at least for me. . .the life lesson is to not be held back by what my parents were or were not, but to constructively use the information to choose what kind of person, spouse or parent I want to be. Learn, change. . .grow.

Like LuvYa.com on Facebook !