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Tikkun Olam: A Second Generation Story


Marlene “Cookie” Segelstein
Madison, Connecticut

The first time I realized that there was more than one definition of the word “camp” was when I was about six years old, and my parents signed me up for summer camp. “Why are they sending me to such a place?” I thought. I had heard talk of “the camps” since I could remember, and although at that age I knew very few details, I knew “camp” was a horrible place. My folks, both holocaust survivors, would lapse into Hungarian or Yiddish when speaking of events that weretoo harsh for my young ears.

I grew up as many kids in the Midwest, learning about the prairie Indians, tornadoes, barbecue,and baseball. I also got an extra education. A knowledge of the capacity of humans to survive unbelievable extremes, and actually what true heroism is. It was not one I appreciated until I was much older. And as I left my house each day to go to school and be with my friends I was relieved to step into a safe, normal seeming world. My parents were happy to see my siblings and I doing well in school, making friends, in other words having a normal childhood. They were embarrassed when thoughtless teachers accused us of writing our own absence notes because of all the misspelled words. They counted on us to help them negotiate the English speaking world when it sometimes seemed to move too fast.

I remember one incident in the shoe department of J.C. Penney’s. I was about 7 or 8, and wanted penny loafers in the worst way. The salesman tried to explain to my mother that since I had a high instep, loafers would not be beneficial to the healthy development of my feet. She nodded but looked at me with a look that I knew very well. It meant that she did not understand exactly what he was talking about. I explained to her (of course lying) as he went to help someone else that he said he only had the black ones in my size, the brown were too small.

As I grew up, I went as far from my ethnic heritage as possible. I had no Jewish friends, dated no Jewish boys, and stopped going to synagogue after my bas mitzve. I wanted nothing to do with this world of pain. I studied music, received a Master’s in Music from Yale, and became a working classical musician. I eventually married a non-Jewish man.

Then I had my first child. All that I had turned away from; the richness of tradition, my family’s history, and especially the music of the Jewish people all of a sudden became the most important thing in my life besides my new child. I called my folks daily with questions. What were the names of all who perished? What was the klezmer band like in their towns? How do you make cholent?

I started making my own gefilte fish, my own challah, mezuzzot went up all over the house. I wanted it all back. And I retrieved as much as I could. I was no longer afraid of the pain. In fact I needed to understand it to prepare for the inevitable questions my children would ask. Why don’t you have grandparents? Why is Grandpa always so sad?

As my children entered school (I had another child), and I became more active as a klezmer violinist , even taking over my classical career, I realized that the fiddle was a way that I was most comfortable expressing myself about my culture.

Even though I had done some speaking as a child of survivors to schools and synagogues, I decided that the way that I could truly talk of what was lost was to expressit verbally and musically. So I started adding music of the shtetl to my speaking. I now bring my father’s memoirs, my mother’s stories, and my fiddle.

This summer my father committed suicide. I returned to my home, which is now about 1300 miles from where I grew up, with a calendar full of previously planned klezmer concerts, and some speaking engagements. I wondered whether I should speak of his suicide, and if I should still bring my fiddle.

My first speaking “gig” was at a nearby state women’s prison. The prison’s educational director had called me earlier in the summer. He got my name from the local Jewish Federation as someone who had a rather eclectic speaking style, and wondered whether I would be willing to speak to the women, who had been studying the Shoah for about six weeks. Many of these women had had very difficult lives, and it was the goal of this wonderful teacher to show them similarities in the plight of Jews and African Americans. I decided that I would take the “full monty” approach, and tell all. It is my way to be gently candid in speaking about the holocaust and I explained to the teacher what I would cover.

After going through the necessary security measures, I entered the room where about 40 women ranging in age from about 18 to 60 were eagerly awaiting. We were all a bit nervous and I started by saying, as I always do, that when I was done speaking, there would be time for questions, and that they could ask ANYTHING, no matter how difficult. As I began, I sensed an amazing openness in these women, as well as shared pain as I told of incidents of loss, especially my father’s suicide.

At this point the teacher explained that he hoped that the women could see the benefit of “telling” their pain, and asked me how it made me feel to tell these stories. I explained that it was the only way that I could imagine carrying this burden of information. It must be told, I said, so people understand what we are all capable of in survival and in terror. We must all vow never to become perpetrators of violence.

When I opened the discussion for questions, one woman asked why they teacher had asked a child of survivors to speak instead of an actual survivor. He answered that he thought the prison would be too reminiscent. I added that my mother would never be able to walk through those doors. One woman exclaimed, “Yeah, we’re a pretty scary bunch of ladies in here…”. I replied that it was not the women that would frighten her, but that she would be terrified of all the police. I also explained that unlike many children in America who ere encouraged to talk to a policeman if lost or scared, we were warned NEVER to speak to the police, or “gendarmes” , but to look for a nice woman with children with her. To this, all the women smiled.

I must say that the experience of speaking to those prisoners was one of the most direct and honest interchanges I have ever had. Many of them hugged me and had tears in their eyes. One young girl said that she was amazed that “white people did these things to each other”. I assured her that violence is not colour coded.

About 2 weeks after my visit to the prison, I received a thank you note, made on a manila folder with signatures and little greetings from each of the women.

As I have entered the world of speaking, or testifying about the Shoah, one thing that always strikes me is the look on some of the faces of the listeners that tells me what I am afraid to hear. that this is the first time some are hearing this. I guess that’s why I do it.