// creative //
Fall 2013
Once Upon a Time
Daniella Greenbaum
Their story had all the makings of a fairytale, except that the villains were real and the evils that were committed couldn’t be righted with the flicking of a wand. But ultimately, my grandparents experienced a happily ever after.
There was no shadchan (matchmaker). There were no dates, and there was no father-in-law from whom to ask permission. It was Bergen-Belsen, after the end of World War II, and Avraham Greenbaum, my paternal grandfather, had become fixated on an article he read in a newsletter that was circulating in the DP camp. The survivors of Bergen-Belsen had decided to actively regroup. Someone suggested the creation of a publication, with essays, news, and other similar pieces. Masha Ralsky, sister, daughter, survivor, earned a new title: Writer. It was the beginning of a career that would ultimately define her life. It was also the beginning of a relationship that would become her life. Masha, or Mashale as I call her, is fluent in Hebrew; her beautiful flowing words and expert use of the language attracted my grandfather before her tenacity, spunk and spirit even entered the picture.
He read her story, and was struck by her poignant use of language, the way she used words to vividly paint a picture. He decided to make it his priority to get to know the girl both beyond and behind the words.
But who was the girl behind the words?
Mashale, as a native of Slobodka, Lithuana, is a Litvak, and therefore had no patience for the Galitzianer Yiddish my grandfather possessed. Hers was unadulterated and German based, the epitome of scholarly; his was Shtetl Yiddish, corrupted by ‘mispronunciations’ and slang. He was an Englishman, and all her friends told her he would be cold and unfriendly. She was emaciated, nearly bald, and had just lost her father, and many of her cousins. She was surprisingly resilient, filled with an eager, glowing fire. Her sparkle didn’t come from pixie dust, but it was overwhelmingly effervescent and pure. Even in the middle of hell on earth, even through a medium of words, she radiated her inner self and was therefore immensely attractive to Avraham.
Zeida, our prince charming, brought himself to the Bergen-Belsen DP camp through a series of unplanned events, and not on the back of a white horse. He had been working on a Hachshara, a training farm to prepare people to create kibbutzim, when he got a call from Aryeh Hendler, who led the Bachad (religious Zionist) movement. Aryeh explained that General Montgomery, who was at the time the head of the British army, had invited the Jewish community to present four rabbis to attach themselves to the military to work in the DP camps, and help the Jews with the religious and social issues that would inevitably arise. I’ll never forget the bitter look in my grandfather’s face when he looked at me in the living room of his home in Rechavia, Jerusalem, and said, “It is shameful to admit that in the British Jewish community there were only three who volunteered.” Although not a rabbi, Zeida was approached for this sensitive job. A few days later, he was officially attached to the army, given the honorary rank of Major, and outfitted in uniform.
As a child, I didn’t understand what Zeida was doing in Bergen-Belsen. The only thing I could conceptualize was that, like the knights in the stories I used to read, Zeida, in shining armor, swooped in to rescue Mashale.
Eventually I understood the more nuanced process by which Mashale saved herself, and met Zeida at a later chapter in her story. I spent last year studying abroad in Jerusalem, and decided to interview Zeida once a week about his experiences during World War II. Most of our talks on the subject were dry; he spoke and I recorded and took notes and asked the occasional question. But after we had gone through his schooling, his early family life, his days with the British army before he joined them in Bergen-Belsen, and nearly thirty pounds of Wissotsky tea, I persuaded him to open up about his romance with Mashale. His eyes sparkled, and his sweet, crooked smile came alive with things to say. My grandparents, married 66 years, are still very much in their honeymoon phase. The spark of their relationship, that unidentifiable, unquantifiable and indescribable feeling that’s supposed to die or burn out after a few years is still very much aflame. They are, in fact, still on their honeymoon. This makes perfect sense, as their actual honeymoon lasted 19 years.
After liberation, my great grandmother (and namesake) decided she wanted to move to Mexico. She had lost her husband in Bergen Belsen, and Yehudis wanted to be with the remaining family she had, many of whom had ended up in Mexico before the outbreak of the war. She had no address for any of these relatives, so she wrote a letter, and addressed the front to “chief rabbi of Mexico City.” Somehow, this letter did indeed end up in the hands of a Rabbi in Mexico who knew someone, who knew someone else, who eventually brought the letter to my family. My grandparents were married in London and set a month aside to spend their honeymoon in Mexico with Yehudis. Once they got to Mexico, however, they both found themselves set up with jobs, a home, and a nurturing support system. This honey trap kept them in Mexico for 19 years, during which they had three children.
In my home, the importance of literary and historical mastery was emphasized constantly. My parents possess an insatiable thirst for knowledge and always encouraged and demanded the same from each of their children. But there was always one corner of both the literary and historical world, one small crevice of time that only my mother was keen on my exploring. For my father, who was born just four years after the conclusion of World War II, for my father who grew up hearing stories of his parents romance and of his mother’s struggles, every day, this corner of history was one that didn’t need to be studied. If anything, my father very actively avoids the period of World War II and the Holocaust. For him, the villains are not characters in a book whose pages he can shut and ignore, but real men and women who terrorized his mother just four years before his birth. He was the first tangible product of their relationship, and one that has obviously made every impact and difference on my life. Sholem Greenbaum is named for Sholem Ralsky, the father that Mashale lost right before meeting Zeida. He was the first sign of a new hope after terrible years of oppression, and was Yehudis’s favorite, named for the husband she could never accept as gone. I am named for Yehudis, the beloved grandmother and best friend that my father lost a few years before my birth. As our generations turn over, they repeat, and repeat and repeat. As years pass, and wounds heal and scars fade, the details of the stories are what remain for generations. It is the story, the narrative, the written word that keeps the events of the past immortalized, eternalizing the significance of survival. Fairytales do not always consist of beautiful gowns and magical pumpkin carriages, but they do always remind us of the immense power of a story well told.
Mashale and Zeida are living happily ever after in Rechavia, Jerusalem.
// DANIELLA GREENBAUM is a freshman at Barnard College. She can be reached at djg2158@barnard.edu. Photo by Flickr user Ros Marvin.
There was no shadchan (matchmaker). There were no dates, and there was no father-in-law from whom to ask permission. It was Bergen-Belsen, after the end of World War II, and Avraham Greenbaum, my paternal grandfather, had become fixated on an article he read in a newsletter that was circulating in the DP camp. The survivors of Bergen-Belsen had decided to actively regroup. Someone suggested the creation of a publication, with essays, news, and other similar pieces. Masha Ralsky, sister, daughter, survivor, earned a new title: Writer. It was the beginning of a career that would ultimately define her life. It was also the beginning of a relationship that would become her life. Masha, or Mashale as I call her, is fluent in Hebrew; her beautiful flowing words and expert use of the language attracted my grandfather before her tenacity, spunk and spirit even entered the picture.
He read her story, and was struck by her poignant use of language, the way she used words to vividly paint a picture. He decided to make it his priority to get to know the girl both beyond and behind the words.
But who was the girl behind the words?
Mashale, as a native of Slobodka, Lithuana, is a Litvak, and therefore had no patience for the Galitzianer Yiddish my grandfather possessed. Hers was unadulterated and German based, the epitome of scholarly; his was Shtetl Yiddish, corrupted by ‘mispronunciations’ and slang. He was an Englishman, and all her friends told her he would be cold and unfriendly. She was emaciated, nearly bald, and had just lost her father, and many of her cousins. She was surprisingly resilient, filled with an eager, glowing fire. Her sparkle didn’t come from pixie dust, but it was overwhelmingly effervescent and pure. Even in the middle of hell on earth, even through a medium of words, she radiated her inner self and was therefore immensely attractive to Avraham.
Zeida, our prince charming, brought himself to the Bergen-Belsen DP camp through a series of unplanned events, and not on the back of a white horse. He had been working on a Hachshara, a training farm to prepare people to create kibbutzim, when he got a call from Aryeh Hendler, who led the Bachad (religious Zionist) movement. Aryeh explained that General Montgomery, who was at the time the head of the British army, had invited the Jewish community to present four rabbis to attach themselves to the military to work in the DP camps, and help the Jews with the religious and social issues that would inevitably arise. I’ll never forget the bitter look in my grandfather’s face when he looked at me in the living room of his home in Rechavia, Jerusalem, and said, “It is shameful to admit that in the British Jewish community there were only three who volunteered.” Although not a rabbi, Zeida was approached for this sensitive job. A few days later, he was officially attached to the army, given the honorary rank of Major, and outfitted in uniform.
As a child, I didn’t understand what Zeida was doing in Bergen-Belsen. The only thing I could conceptualize was that, like the knights in the stories I used to read, Zeida, in shining armor, swooped in to rescue Mashale.
Eventually I understood the more nuanced process by which Mashale saved herself, and met Zeida at a later chapter in her story. I spent last year studying abroad in Jerusalem, and decided to interview Zeida once a week about his experiences during World War II. Most of our talks on the subject were dry; he spoke and I recorded and took notes and asked the occasional question. But after we had gone through his schooling, his early family life, his days with the British army before he joined them in Bergen-Belsen, and nearly thirty pounds of Wissotsky tea, I persuaded him to open up about his romance with Mashale. His eyes sparkled, and his sweet, crooked smile came alive with things to say. My grandparents, married 66 years, are still very much in their honeymoon phase. The spark of their relationship, that unidentifiable, unquantifiable and indescribable feeling that’s supposed to die or burn out after a few years is still very much aflame. They are, in fact, still on their honeymoon. This makes perfect sense, as their actual honeymoon lasted 19 years.
After liberation, my great grandmother (and namesake) decided she wanted to move to Mexico. She had lost her husband in Bergen Belsen, and Yehudis wanted to be with the remaining family she had, many of whom had ended up in Mexico before the outbreak of the war. She had no address for any of these relatives, so she wrote a letter, and addressed the front to “chief rabbi of Mexico City.” Somehow, this letter did indeed end up in the hands of a Rabbi in Mexico who knew someone, who knew someone else, who eventually brought the letter to my family. My grandparents were married in London and set a month aside to spend their honeymoon in Mexico with Yehudis. Once they got to Mexico, however, they both found themselves set up with jobs, a home, and a nurturing support system. This honey trap kept them in Mexico for 19 years, during which they had three children.
In my home, the importance of literary and historical mastery was emphasized constantly. My parents possess an insatiable thirst for knowledge and always encouraged and demanded the same from each of their children. But there was always one corner of both the literary and historical world, one small crevice of time that only my mother was keen on my exploring. For my father, who was born just four years after the conclusion of World War II, for my father who grew up hearing stories of his parents romance and of his mother’s struggles, every day, this corner of history was one that didn’t need to be studied. If anything, my father very actively avoids the period of World War II and the Holocaust. For him, the villains are not characters in a book whose pages he can shut and ignore, but real men and women who terrorized his mother just four years before his birth. He was the first tangible product of their relationship, and one that has obviously made every impact and difference on my life. Sholem Greenbaum is named for Sholem Ralsky, the father that Mashale lost right before meeting Zeida. He was the first sign of a new hope after terrible years of oppression, and was Yehudis’s favorite, named for the husband she could never accept as gone. I am named for Yehudis, the beloved grandmother and best friend that my father lost a few years before my birth. As our generations turn over, they repeat, and repeat and repeat. As years pass, and wounds heal and scars fade, the details of the stories are what remain for generations. It is the story, the narrative, the written word that keeps the events of the past immortalized, eternalizing the significance of survival. Fairytales do not always consist of beautiful gowns and magical pumpkin carriages, but they do always remind us of the immense power of a story well told.
Mashale and Zeida are living happily ever after in Rechavia, Jerusalem.
// DANIELLA GREENBAUM is a freshman at Barnard College. She can be reached at djg2158@barnard.edu. Photo by Flickr user Ros Marvin.