In his new book, a historical research on children who survived in Poland thanks to a borrowed identity, Dr. Bogner writes:
"In vain we search for an authentic testimony about the thoughts and the feelings of the child.... from the time of the war."

My belief is that a testimony of the thoughts , the feelings and the sensations does exist and that it is authentic and credible. It is hidden in the soul of each and every one. And the good and wise soul, with its inborn woundrous ability to heal itself, liberates the testimony in its right time and in the right amount.

Still I need to first state, that there were many things I remembered. But those were disconnected from feelings, they were simply dry facts, something like "a historic documentation".

It was in the process of my healing, which often was painful and torturing, that the feelings and sensations which belonged to those memories emerged - slowly and with great caution.
Today I want to share some aspects of this process.

My decision to enter psychotherapy was surprising also for me. It occurred at the end of a Marathon workshop in the Gestalt method.
I was then 38 years old, married and a mother of three daughters, with a B.A. in Social Work
In the night between Friday and Shabbat I dreamt a dream which I see as opening my long journey inside.

And this is the dream:

I am walking on my way. A heavy sack is hanging on my back. From far away I see the place which I must reach. Little houses with roofs, surrounded by trees and flowering gardens. Between me and that place a graveyard spreads and I must go through it. There is no other way:

When the war broke out I was two years old, the only daughter of my parents. My father, like the rest of the recruitable men, went east , following the command of the Polish government. He survived in the Sowjet Union.

When the ghettos were established, we, women, children and old people, were transferred to the ghetto.

In the beginning of 1942, when I was four, I was given in custody of a Christian family. Because of their favors I survived, thanks to a borrowed identity.

Very fast I adopted the Christian faith, I prayed in the morning and in the evening, I went, out of my own initiative, day after day to the church which was close to the house. In one of the churches there was a chapel of St. Antonius, the patron of lost things. Antonius became the one to whom my prayers were addressed.

Thirty years later it occurred to me that - parallel to my prayer - deep deep inside, there was an additional voice and a sober knowing for a five year old girl, which wasn't really Christian, that he, Saint Antonius, wasn't able to accomplish anything.

And suddenly I understood the meaning of the uncontrollable trembling
of my right eye, which accompanied my prayers.

Following the opening dream, which I mentioned before, I set out to heal myself, and the next dream was:

I come to a city square where a Renault 4 is parking.
The place is paved with big stones and surrounded by high buildings in European style. Their windows are closed. The shops, too, are closed. Only one place is open, and in the entrance to it a man is standing, tall
and blond, staring at me. I search for my car but it is not there. On the spot where I left it, a Volkswagen is parked. And I know that it is "dressed" over my Renault.

On this dream I worked with the Gestalt approach according to which every metaphor in a dream is a part of the inner being of the dreamer. "Gestalt" encourages to live these parts in the "here and now", or in other words: "to go back there", to talk in the name of each of those metaphors and to be their mouth and voice, in order to enable the person to re-connect to the emotions which are encapsuled in those metaphors.


I was the floor and I was flooded with terrible sensations of a child that felt stomped out and run over.

I was the high buildings and I felt that behind the closed windows the mute witnesses were hiding, indifferent and insensitive, who saw the terrible things happen in front of their eyes and - remained silent.

The tall and blonde man surprised me by saying - I am here the one who is in control of life and death. And I am not afraid of anybody, for I am not a Jew.

Up to this day I remember the deep shock which those words aroused in me.

As to facts there was nothing new in it. Despite this I came dangerously close to terror.

And then I was the "Volkswagen". I felt, how its armature weighed down on me. The inflexibility and limitedness and the lack of vitality.

And suddenly I felt that there was something else which existed in me, something real and alive, with a powerful motor, with a steering wheel and with wheels.

And I knew, that even if right now I didn't know how - I , I would get my Renault back.

The terror, which dwelt in me, I met much much later.

The following dream is very short, one line only:

    My face is splitting into thousands of pieces.

And again, encouraged by the therapist who accompanied me, with courage and with love, on my way inside:

Not very long after this, after we had left the Ghetto and I had come to those who saved me, I was told among other things:
"Whenever we'll be outside the house - stare at your shoes."

To hide the real identity!

This was the imperative condition for saving my life and for saving the lives of my saviors.

For the next three years I failed only twice. The first time was, when the order was given, that every child had to get vaccination and be equipped with a certificate.

It was dangerous not to heed this order , and we go therefore to Dr. Sikora.

He lives across the street and knows "the Aunt" (that's how I called the one who saved me).

Dr. Sikora gives me the vaccination and asks about my name , in order to hand out the certificate.

Aunt shows him my fictive certificate. It was the very first time, that this was demanded. Silence . ---- Long and terrible ----
The doctor looks into my face, then turns to Aunt and says:

"She is one of the Nebel family...., what a resemblance...."

And after another silence, long and blood freezing, he says:
"I won't reveal it, but take her quickly out of town. I am in danger too."

The encounter with Dr. Sikora made me finally understand, how much my face was endangering me.

The next day we left the town, in which I was born , and we started to wander between close and distant relatives of Marysia, the 18 year old daughter of the Aunt. To Marysia I was attached until the end of the war.

Marysia took up all kinds of jobs to provide for us. In one of the small towns, in which we stayed, they were looking for a prompter for a German theater performance which came to town to amuse the soldiers on the front. Since Marysia spoke German, she got the job.

Sometimes Marysia took me with her, for in a certain way she was more afraid of the Poles than of the Germans, who did not know how to identify Jews according to their appearance.

And there, in the theater, I failed a second time.

There we are, surrounded by actors and stage workers. In the background German marching songs blare from a loudspeaker which hangs on the wall . A speaker reads the news and closes with the weather forecast.

"Fog comes towards us from the east."

In the German language fog is Nebel, my real family name. The name of my father and my mother.
I become tense... did I hear alright? Did they say they would return?
I pull on Marysia's dress and yell: "Did you hear that?"
She does not answer... as if she doesn't hear ... she ignores me ... my pleading is in vain. I surrender.

Three years ago I asked Marysia:
"Do you remember...?"
And she answered:
"How would I not remember?"
"And what did you feel then?" I asked.
" That we were looking into Death's face."

These two photos with Yanina I lately discovered on a wall in Yanina's house and photographed them The elegant woman is Marysia

Another dream:

The beginning of the dream made me go back to the parting from my mother.

In any case this was supposed to be the last day with my mother. For the next morning I was meant to leave the ghetto together with my savior, a plan of which I, of course, had no idea.
But something surprising happened. During the last hours of the evening an "action" was carried out, and together with all the tenants of our street we were taken to a school which had been emptied of desks and benches and had become a station for herding people.

When the brave and loving therapist asked very cautiously: "Do you want to go back there?" I panicked. Yet I knew that there was no other path for me ... and I knew I would not be alone.

We sit on the floor - mother, my aunt and I. Mother wears my favorite shawl [or sweater?], blue with colored points woven into the wool. Many people are together with us. Also my good friend, about whom I'll talk later, is there.

The door opens, an SS man enters with a slip in his hand. He says, that the people whose name he would read, could leave. He reads names.

Suddenly he says: "F. Nebel and her daughter".


F. Nebel and her daughter, these are we, mother and I. Why doesn't mother get up? Why does my aunt get up and go towards the door?

Mother pushes me away from her... says to Aunt "take her"... Aunt takes my hand and shoves me out of the room.

My savior found us the next day at aunt Alma's who lived with her three children, my cousins, in another street.

In my therapy I "go back there" for another time.

A woman enters. I saw her already with mother, once or twice. She wants me to go with her.

I don't want to go with the strange woman. I want my mother! I hide under the bed.

Everyone tries to persuade me to come out. The strange woman says:

"You better come out. Mother is in my house and she's waiting for you."

I come out. I join the woman.

In her house I ask "where is mother?"

"She is not here... but she will come .. in a day or two"

I wait a day.... two days.... three .... a month.... a year.... two years... ten ... twenty.... thirty years....

The little girl in me searches for mother forever and everywhere.
Sometimes, when I walk along a street, I see a woman in front of me, she is short and has black curls and my heart starts to beat. I run fast, I by-pass her, I turn backward and go towards her...

This time too it was not mother... maybe next time...

Parallel to the individual therapy I take part in a group.
In the group meeting we arrange a funeral for my mother.

A little while after that I dream the following dream:

* * * * * * ** * ** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

All my life I had the feeling that I was stupid despite the fact that I excelled in my studies , nor are my life's achievements negligable. But in me "dwells" a little girl, who knew something about me, which others didn't know. Something that caused her to be ashamed of herself and to despise herself. I know now, in the therapy, that I have given her the stage, despite the fear which this brings up.

We are in the village, with an uncle and aunt of Marysia.

This is a little village house, and in it a tiny room for uncle and aunt, a central big room and a kitchen. The toilet is outside.

Aunt, the mother of Marysia comes vor a visit. She wears a big straw hat on her head. Some hours pass and Aunt is about to return home. She gathers her stuff.

She doesn't find her hat. She wants me to find it.

Her glance accompanies me to the kitchen, to the tiny room - the hat is not there.

With one glance one can see, that in the big room the hat isn't either, but I must search.

I search on the bed, under the bed and in it. I search on the closet, under the closet and in it, I search in the drawer, under the drawer and in all its tills, on the table, under the table and in the little till in the table.
There were no more reasonable places to search in ... I continue to search in the box of the stitching materials... in a small wooden box... in the transparent glass vase... in a match box.
And also underneath - and under the pencil...

In total despair, my eyes lowered , I whisper to my therapist:

Only a stupid girl looks for a straw hat under a pencil.

And when I dare to lift my eyes, I see tears in his.

In that little village house I met a wonderful man. A peasant and simple man with a great soul and a warm heart. Uncle Martin, the uncle of Marysia.
His wife, an old and troubled woman, wasn't pleased with my presence there, which was aggravated by the fact that despite all my desperate endeavors, I couldn't control wetting my bed at night.

Every night, at a certain hour, uncle Martin would wake me up, very, very gently, accompany me to an improvised toilet and back to bed. In his warm heart there was a great space for me.

We stayed with him until the end of the war and for the next ten years "I did not remember him".

About a month before my immigration to Israel I felt, that I couldn't leave Poland without having seen him one more time, without having thanked him as a grownup.

I travel in the train. I'm all tensed-up, I feel rueful, ashamed and guilty about my lack of gratitude. He will probably not see me after ten years of silence. I pray the train my not arrive at its destination.

I approach his house... he is in the stable .... I drag my heavy feet towards the stable in which we spent many and pleasant hours in the company of cows and calves.

Uncle Martin works ... he senses my presence .... lifts his head... looks into my eyes, and a warm smile lights up his face. He calls my name, he opens his arms, he hugs me and says: "I knew that I would see you again."
Blessed be the memory of uncle Martin.

When Jonathan, my first grandchild, was born, there was no limit to my joy. But the closer the Day of Circumcision [in Hebrew "brit"=covenant) came, the bigger became my tension and pushed the joy aside.

The synagogue in which the ceremony was to be held, has a special and beautiful structure, it is built in the shape of an amphitheater, in which the entrance is at the highest spot and the Holy Ark and the little platform on which the prayers are conducted, are on the lowest spot. Between the entrance and the stage are rows of stairs for the worshippers.

The brit is conducted according to a fixed ritual. The mother of the baby prepares it in a room next to the entrance of the synagogue, nurses him and hands it over to her mother who stands in the opening to the synagogue. The grandmother steps down some steps, with the baby in her arms and delivers it to the grandfather and then further , until it reaches the little platform and the arms of the godfather who sits next to the circumciser.

I stood in the entrance to the synagogue with a feeling that something horrible was about to happen and that I needed to prevent a catastrophe. I felt an uncontrollable urge to kidnap my grandson, to flee with him and to thus save his life. Something in me "knew" that a covenant with the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob - was a death covenant. I stood there, petrofied with the baby in my arms.

On the floor below us, in the ghetto, a boy my age lived with his mother. We were very good friends and loved to play together. When I was already with Marysia I witnessed a talk from which it could be understood that he too was meant to be taken to a Polish family. But this one regretted their decision the last minute. They became aware of the difficulty of hiding the identity of a Jewish boy who was circumcised.

My good friend with whom I loved to play was sent to Auschwitz, together with everyone else who was taken that evening to the herding station and was not fortunate enough to get out of there.

My good friend, with whom I loved to play was called David Katzengold.

Some time after these memories emerged, I participated in a ten day silence meeting in "Succah in the Desert". The silence of desert and people created the conditions in which the inner voices could be heard better and better.

One evening it was my turn to wash the dishes. I was in the kitchen and heard the others hum without words, voicing deep and beautiful sounds. I felt that all these beautiful sounds were in me too.

I only needed to let them out.

The next day, with the beginning of the seventh day of my stay in the desert, a horror trip began which ended only a short while before the setting of the sun.

With the rising of the sun I climbed up the highest hill. I looked around the magnificent view and listened to the deep silence. It occurred to me that this was the most suitable moment "to allow the sounds to come out."

I took a deep breath, opened my mouth, but instead of the deep sounds which I expected nothing but a miserable twitter escaped it. I thought: "It's morning, I haven't yet wet my throat"... I coughed a little, to clear my throat, took another deep breath , opened my mouth...

This time there wasn't even a twitter . I felt suffocated... I became hoarse.
I knew myself as an introvert person, who feels comfortable with being silent. But this time it looked like there was something different at stake.

And that deep inside me, there was a part which was mute.

The word "mute" started to resonate in my ears, and became stronger and stronger.

Mute... mute... mute.... mute like a grave.

What grave? What is that mute grave inside me?

Out of the grave voices started to rise, screams and shrieks, rage and tears
. And also the words: "IMMA {mother}! " and "NO!"

Suddenly the word "grave" became "mass grave", and I felt that deep inside me there was a mass grave and in it the horrible pain of the children who perished.

Their voices accompanied me all day long. Towards the evening all the members of the group met at the Ramon Crater. While standing on the edge of the crater, with the members of the group behind me, I heard the screams of the children rising from it. And I felt a strong pull towards the dead ones, an urge to join them.

Terror seized me. I asked our guide to stay near me.

I don't know how much time passed until the voices started to weaken, slowly, gradually, until they stopped in the end.


Silence and serenity spread over the desert and over my soul. I had the feeling, that here, in the land of Israel, in the Crater, a home was found for the tortured children, where there memory could rest in peace.



And I do not have to be down there. No! I was not meant to die.

May God remember the souls of one and a half million children which were plucked...