The story of my mother, Cibi and Magda is testament to the power of love and devotion. Against all the odds, the three sisters survived the most heinous, systematic genocide that the world has ever known. And yet they went on to live and work in a new country, the country of my birth, learning a new language and culture. They lived lives full of laughter, fulfilment and joy, always surrounded by love, with each successive generation of sons, daughters, grandchildren and great-grandchildren growing and thriving in freedom.
This book brings together all of the stories that I’d heard from a young age. Heather captures the beautiful, peaceful lives that Ema and her family enjoyed in Vranov, and the helplessness, chaos and horrible tragedies that these strong, incredible sisters endured and witnessed.
As a child, I saw the sadness in my Ema’s eyes. I felt her sorrow, but didn’t understand. I would save my small birthday and holiday gifts of money, and purchase presents for her so that I could see her beautiful smile light up her eyes. My sister, Dorit, and I had the best childhoods ever, filled with love and laughter, security and liberty. We were blessed that my father, my Aba, and my Ema were open with us, and didn’t keep their lives before we knew them a mystery.
As the years went by, I began to understand that they had survived the unimaginable.
Engraved in my mind is a pivotal moment when I stood with Ema next to the fence at the death camp, Auschwitz-Birkenau. Ema described to me the depravity that went on in that place and about life beyond the dividing electrical fence. She told me: ‘It is the same blue sky and sun that is over the death camp and the fields and forests beyond, on the other side of the fence.’ She could see families together, children playing, and people working in the fields. They totally ignored what was going on in the death camp, continuing to live and go about their business as though it were an ordinary day, as though those on the other side of the fence were invisible. Here, where Ema stood, on one side of the fence, was the stench of death, murder and misery, yet on the other side there was life and freedom. And it was all under the same blue sky. How could it be?’
Later, at a newly opened boutique hotel at a ski village not far from Auschwitz-Birkenau, Pam and I returned to the car. We told Ema and Aba, Dorit, and our niece, Ruth, what we’d just learned. This converted mansion had an infamous history. It had been a retreat for SS officers who worked at the death and extermination camps. ‘Shall we look for other accommodation?’
Ema’s response, as always, was insightful and succinct: ‘We are here. They are not.’
AFTERWORD FROM AYALA RAVEK
I
remember.
I remember, as a child, tracing my fingers on her arms, over the faded numbers.
I remember coming home one afternoon to see my Safta speaking to a stranger, with tears in her voice, immortalising her story into a camera; and being scared and curious, and not knowing what to do or say.
I remember the small knife she always carried in her purse, next to the mints she would share with me during car rides; the knife that she would occasionally take out and cradle in her hand, working her thumb over the worn handle.
I remember the first time she told me where she found the knife – in the camp – after asking her where the knife was from, and I said, ‘Cool.’ We were in the middle of a mall, sitting on a bench. I was a child but, still, I remember the feeling of instant regret, knowing I had said the wrong thing and not really understanding why; but I understood the sadness in her eyes.
I remember, years later, that the knife was lost in a taxi, and that I cried to myself that night, feeling a loss I could not explain.
I remember the sleepovers in my grandparents’ room, and sitting outside in the sunshine eating ice cream, after having walked by the water in the summer sun.
I remember the laughter around the table as bellies ached and tears rolled down cheeks, our laughter so hard we couldn’t catch our breath; as the pain that was always there below the surface found its release.
But what I remember most of all are the hugs when Safta would whisper: ‘You are my victory. My family is my victory.’
AFTERWORD FROM YOSSI LAHAV （LANG）
I
would like to thank Heather Morris, who dived head first into this project and brought the remarkable tale of the three sisters into existence. Their path will for ever be documented in this book.
In addition, a big thank you to my cousin, Oded Ravek, and his wife, Pam, who initiated the collaboration with Heather Morris.
I was born and raised in Kfar Ahim, a community of Holocaust survivors.
At the time of my birth, my mother suffered from tuberculosis and couldn’t take care of my older brother and a new baby – we were assigned to children’s homes. The first two years of my life I spent in Jerusalem, while my brother was in Tiv’on.