Spring Break
Never forgotten
A name and a memory
by Matthew Kriegsman
Features | 11/6/07
Posted online at 2:24 AM EST on 11/6/07
It was as if I had been there before. Poland-so desolate, so isolated, so foreign-yet standing at the Umschlagplatz memorial this past February sparked a sensation that ran through me and made the scene almost familiar.
My grandfather, Moshe Kriegsman, whose namesake I represent, grew up in Warsaw, Poland, but at the age of 25 was sent to the Auschwitz concentration camp.
I had never met him, never spoken to him, never seen him. But the connection I felt was indescribable. For the first time, a Kriegsman had come back to his heritage. As I stood there, all I could do was stare.
A small sign in the corner read, "Along this path of suffering, over 300,000 Jews were driven in 1942-1943 from the Warsaw ghetto to the gas chambers of the Nazi Extermination Camps." Those words pierced my eyes and will forever remain engraved within me.
Although my grandfather survived the war as a barber for the German soldiers, the rest of his family was brutally murdered. But then it hit me: I was standing in the very same place the Kriegsman family last held their belongings, spoke with other friends and families and shared their hopes and dreams.
Here stood a tall, gray edifice-the memorial at Umschlagplatz-and it listed popular Jewish names of the time. It was as though the name of each individual collectivity symbolized the unity and cohesion of the Jewish people.
Oddly, my eyes, as if assisted by the flow of names themselves, drew me to one name in particular over in the corner of the memorial that seemed to overshadow those around it. I allowed myself to be drawn closer. "Moshe." It seemed to have called my name out loud, though only I could hear it.
The name Moshe kept repeating itself along the memorial. It grew louder and stronger, like a ringing in the ear or a song stuck in the head. It followed me. Surrounded me. Embraced me.
Admittedly, I had been searching for his name. But when I came to it, I had to do a double take. As I ran my fingers over the name, the cold stone, bitter to the touch, chilled me to the bone, as if a tiny fraction of his experience had somehow embedded itself within me. His name-our name-had suddenly become more meaningful than ever, as if staring at the letters allowed me to stare into a shared soul.
My grandfather, Moshe Kriegsman, whose namesake I represent, grew up in Warsaw, Poland, but at the age of 25 was sent to the Auschwitz concentration camp.
I had never met him, never spoken to him, never seen him. But the connection I felt was indescribable. For the first time, a Kriegsman had come back to his heritage. As I stood there, all I could do was stare.
A small sign in the corner read, "Along this path of suffering, over 300,000 Jews were driven in 1942-1943 from the Warsaw ghetto to the gas chambers of the Nazi Extermination Camps." Those words pierced my eyes and will forever remain engraved within me.
Although my grandfather survived the war as a barber for the German soldiers, the rest of his family was brutally murdered. But then it hit me: I was standing in the very same place the Kriegsman family last held their belongings, spoke with other friends and families and shared their hopes and dreams.
Here stood a tall, gray edifice-the memorial at Umschlagplatz-and it listed popular Jewish names of the time. It was as though the name of each individual collectivity symbolized the unity and cohesion of the Jewish people.
Oddly, my eyes, as if assisted by the flow of names themselves, drew me to one name in particular over in the corner of the memorial that seemed to overshadow those around it. I allowed myself to be drawn closer. "Moshe." It seemed to have called my name out loud, though only I could hear it.
The name Moshe kept repeating itself along the memorial. It grew louder and stronger, like a ringing in the ear or a song stuck in the head. It followed me. Surrounded me. Embraced me.
Admittedly, I had been searching for his name. But when I came to it, I had to do a double take. As I ran my fingers over the name, the cold stone, bitter to the touch, chilled me to the bone, as if a tiny fraction of his experience had somehow embedded itself within me. His name-our name-had suddenly become more meaningful than ever, as if staring at the letters allowed me to stare into a shared soul.
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