For translation help, I’d like to thank German translator Jens, Russian/Belarusian translator Anna, and Yiddish translator Arik. I struggled the most with the Yiddish translations, because they involve transliteration （in this case from Hebrew letters to Roman letters）， which is never a perfect art, but which was further complicated by regional dialects and the fact that Yiddish is largely a slang language. To that end, I also consulted Rebbetzin Hindel Levitin of the Chabad House Palm Beach, and my friend （and foreign rights agent） Heather Baror-Shapiro, as well as Shiri Shapira, who works as a Yiddish translator for Armchair Publishing, my beloved Israeli publishing house, and Shiri’s colleague Arun Schaechter Viswanath. In the end, the translations I used came mostly from Shiri and Arun, because they took into account the regional dialect and accent that best fit the story. All the aforementioned Yiddish speakers gave me invaluable input, and if I’ve slightly missed the mark, the error is mine—though I promise, it’s not for lack of trying. I had several sleepless nights, and one nightmare, worrying about just the three short Yiddish sentences in chapter 1! Rebbetzin Levitin also went out of her way to help with the accuracy of a few other passages, for which I am deeply grateful.
I also need to thank Tamara Vershitskaya, the researcher and curator of the Museum of Jewish Resistance in Novogrudok, who answered several questions for me, as well as my friend Pam Kancher, the executive director of the Holocaust Memorial Resource & Education Center in Maitland, Florida, who is always willing to provide help and answers when I need them. It means so much when people are willing to spend their time, energy, and resources lending a hand, and I appreciate it deeply.
* * *
When I talked to Aron Bielski, I asked him what he thought made ordinary men like him and his brothers rise up and do something so extraordinary. He was silent for a long time and then said softly, simply, “God.”
I was especially struck by that, because to hear Henryka and Aron tell it, there wasn’t much time for religious observance during those years in the forest; their focus had to be on survival. “You cannot do it; you have to go fight, you have to go for a food mission,” Henryka explained. “But there was a rabbi who taught religion, and they celebrated high holidays, too. They celebrated the best they could.” Aron said he couldn’t recall if they even lit candles for Shabbat. “I don’t remember that,” he said. “But if you didn’t have a candle, you took a piece of wood.”
Even in the darkness, that light burned. God was with them all along, in the big moments and the small. I think they felt it then, and Aron still feels it now.
Today, eight decades after the Germans swept through Poland and took so many lives, Aron and Henryka are concerned about the way the world sometimes seems to be splintering once again. “We worry because of what’s going on in the world now with the hate between nations, between religions, between races,” Henryka said. Added Aron, “It was, it is, and it always will be.”
As for the message Aron would like to share with the world today? “Be nice if at all possible, and help always poorer and weaker individuals. Hopefully there will not be such a war again, although there is still too much hate, and you never know what the world will get.… We hope it will never happen again, but there is no guarantee.”
Let’s not forget the past. Let’s not forget the heroes who fought so that others could survive. Let’s not forget to be kind to our fellow man.
Be nice if at all possible. It’s such simple advice, but if we can all do that, every day, maybe we can be the change. Maybe we can stand together. Maybe we can build the world a better future. Here’s to lighting a candle, or a piece of wood, in the darkness—and to letting that light carry us through.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wrote The Forest of Vanishing Stars entirely in 2020, the strangest year any of us could have imagined.
This could have been a year of sadness, and in many ways, it was. But for me, it also became a year defined by community. And at the heart of that community was Friends & Fiction, the Facebook group, live weekly show, and podcast I cofounded with Mary Kay Andrews, Kristy Woodson Harvey, Patti Callahan Henry, and Mary Alice Monroe in the first few weeks of the pandemic shutdown.
Our community has grown to tens of thousands since then, and every day it has brought me solace and a sense of belonging. Mary Kay, Kristy, Patti, and Mary Alice have become very dear friends of mine （we probably exchange about a hundred texts a day）， as have Meg Walker （our managing director） and Shaun Hettinger （our audio/video guru）。 Each week, we’ve interviewed other authors （including Kristin Hannah, Delia Owens, Brit Bennett, Lisa See, and William Kent Krueger）， and day after day, I’ve felt a little less alone. I’ve realized we’re all in the same boat. And I’ve found such comfort in being a part of a vibrant community of active, engaged, compassionate readers who are on our page all the time, giving each other advice, sharing their lives, and discussing the books they love.