Yom Hashoah 2018 Commemoration Video (Part 2)

Paulette Flatowicz is lighting a candle in memory of her husband Hersch's parents and six siblings and both of their extended families. Hersch and Paulette met in Paris after the war. Hersch had been in Auschwitz and was the only survivor from a family of nine. The war had changed everything for both of them. Paulette says, our kids know what happened to us, that's important, but I can't talk about it anymore, it's just too upsetting.

As we remember the six million, Fred Jaruzalski Kader is lighting a candle in memory of his parents, his four siblings and extended family. Fred had no memory of his early childhood or of his parents. Just three years ago, the Belgian immigration police opened their records to the public. In the file were tiny ID photos of his parents, he had never seen pictures of them before. Finally, after having to imagine what his parents looked like, there were pictures. Fred said it was a fantastic feeling.

As we remember the six million, Marcel Kahn is lighting a candle in memory of his and Ilse's extended families. Not all of the Kahn relatives came to America. Marcel's grandmother said she was too old to leave. Marcel shares, we were fortunate as hell to have parents who made the decision to leave home as opposed to my relatives who said things would blow over. Their ashes are in Germany.

As we remember the six million, Lila Lutz is lighting a candle in memory of her mother and extended family. In Poland, everyone dressed up for Shabbat. Lila remembers the good food, a pretty white tablecloth, the silver candelabra, and an embroidered challah cover with gold Hebrew letters. Every Friday night, her family invited a poor man to come to dinner and sometimes he would sleep over. Shabbos was her favorite, Shabbos was holy.

As we remember the six million, Polina Labunskaya is lighting a candle in memory of her younger brother and extended family. Polina's father saved their family more than once. Her mother was always supportive and encouraging, but because her father could not read or write, Polina was determined to be educated. She has a very good library, all her life she has collected books. Books are the main treasure, she says, my best friends are books.

As we remember the six million, Esther Silver is lighting a candle in memory of her parents, her three younger brothers, and her extended family. Esther recalls that when her son was five, he came home from a birthday party and asked, Tommy has grandparents and cousins and aunts and uncles. Why don't we have any? How could Esther explain that to a five-year-old? Without an extended family, Esther said it was hard and sad to raise her two sons.

As we remember the six million, Kitty Williams is lighting a candle in memory of her father, her brother, and extended family. Kitty's father was her idol. It wasn't any one thing he said or did, it was enough just to be in his presence. She would walk with him to shul every Saturday, but they didn't talk. Kitty would just hold his hand. It was the highlight of her existence because she had him all to herself.

Bruce Crawford, the nephew of two military liberators, George and Glenn Hill, will now light a candle in honor of all the military liberators and rescuers of World War II.

As we conclude the candle lighting ceremony, I ask that everyone here whose family was affected by the Holocaust be included and recognized. Would all the sons and daughters of Holocaust survivors, the second generation, please stand and remain standing? Will the third generation, the grandchildren of Holocaust survivors, please stand as well? And will the fourth or subsequent generations of descendants of Holocaust survivors, please stand?

Before we recite the Kaddish Yatom, we remember that many Holocaust survivors who were part of our community, but today live in our hearts and in the hearts of their spouses, children and grandchildren. Please rise for the Mourner's Kaddish.

Yit-ga-dal v'-yit-ka-dash shme ra-ba B'-al-ma di v'-ra khir-u-te V'-yam-likh mal-khu-te B'-kha-yey-khon uv-yo-mey-khon uv-kha-yey d'-khal beyt yis-ra-el Ba-a-ga-la u-viz-man ka-riv V'-im-ru a-men Y'-hey shme ra-ba m'-va-rakh l'-a-lam ul-al-mey al-ma-ya Yit-ba-rakh v'-yish-ta-bakh v'-yit-pa-ar v'-yit-ro-mam v'-yit-na-sey V'-yit-ha-dar v'-yit-a-le v'-yit-ha-lal shme d'-kud-sha b'-rikh hu L'-e-la min kol bir-kha-ta v'-shi-ra-ta tush-b'-kha-ta v'-ne-khe-ma-ta Da-a-mi-ran b'-al-ma V'-im-ru a-men Y'-hey shla-ma ra-ba min shma-ya V'-kha-yim a-ley-nu v'-al kol yis-ra-el V'-im-ru a-men O-se sha-lom bi-m'-ro-mav Hu ya-a-se sha-lom a-ley-nu V'-al kol yis-ra-el V'-im-ru a-men You may be seated.

Good evening. Jews in the area were farmers and ranchers, and my dad sold cattle. We were accepted. Antisemitism was affecting the big cities and we had no idea what was going on. Newspapers weren't as prevalent as they are now but we had a town crier who came once a week with local news. Antisemitism took hold in our town because of outsiders caused trouble. Soon we could not get Kosher meat anymore, we could not spend time in a public park and people were told, don't buy from Jews. In 1937 my parents decided it was time to leave Germany So they took a train to Stuttgart because that's where the American embassy was to start the process. One year later, we set sail for America. One month later, Ilse and her family made the same voyage on the same ship. I had a child's understanding of what was happening but didn't understand the severity of it. One of our relatives was David Kauffman a prominent businessman in Grand Island who provided the necessary affidavits for us to come to the United States. A generous man, David was responsible for providing immigration documents to over 100 Jewish families and was credited with saving the lives of over 250 people. Without him, we wouldn't be here. Learning English in the first grade was a problem. It took a whole year for me to pick up the language, but I could add as well as anyone. In 1954, I graduated from UNO and my parents and I took a trip to visit relatives back East. Our family had known Ilse's family in Germany so we went to see them in New York. Months later, I was stationed at Turner Air Force Base in Albany, Georgia and was able to get to New York to see more of Ilse. Eventually I asked her to marry me and she made the mistake of saying yes. We were married in 1956 and six months later settled in Omaha. We are lucky to live in America and we have the freedom to do as we wish. And that includes the freedom to practice our religion. Something we didn't have in Europe. I don't take our good fortune for granted I believe that as Jews we should always come to the aid of others who are being discriminated against or threatened. Let it be a red flag when one human being tries to put another human being down.

I am reading this for my husband Leo Fettman from his book Shoah: Journey Through the Ashes. Chapter 3 I'm not gonna read the whole chapter. Hundreds upon hundreds of uniformed Nazis flooded into our little Shtetl. Two young blonde-haired men carrying machine guns and wearing Nazi arm brands smashed the glass of the front door to our store and stormed into our home. This building is confiscated Juden. You have 10 minutes to gather your belongings and come with us. They leveled their guns at us whenever we made a move or said one word. We were afraid to cough or sneeze. Even making eye contact was a risk. "You, you make me breakfast" one of the Nazis suddenly commanded, pointing a finger at my father. With a look of alarm my father replied, "my wife will make it for you". "Yes, yes, I'll make breakfast for you" my mother said as she turned to the stove. "No he will do it" the Nazi commanded as he moved towards my father. My father stared for a moment at each of us, then with a grimace, he walked stiffly toward the stove and began frying some eggs. I could sense his deep humiliation and frustration at not being able to protect his family. After being forced from our home, we were taken to the synagogue. One by one, 38 families, about 150 of us were pushed into the building. We were held hostage there for two long days and two very long nights. The morning of the third day the Nazis threw open the door screaming "get out, get out, out, out!" A long line of horse-drawn wagons were lined up in the street outside of the synagogue. Everyone, young and old was shoved or thrown into the wagons. We had no idea where they were taking us. Past farms, through villages, our wagons jerked and journeyed towards some undisclosed destination. Here and there, clusters of peasants gazed as we rolled by. Some just watched in silence, others shouted curses. Because of the high sides of the wagon, I could not see them clearly, and because of the clamor of the horses and the wooden wheels on the road, I could barely hear them. Still, I could feel their anger. It penetrated the dirt and noise like a sharp-edged knife. Over and over, I asked myself, why are these people so filled with hatred for us? Let it be a red flag when one human being tries to put another human being down.

We are different, you and I. Different in body, different in mind, different in ways we choose to be kind, or unkind at times. Just different. We are different, you and I. Different in love, different in dreams, different in what we view as extreme or not extreme enough. Just different.

We inhabit different lands. We abide by different laws. We follow different leaders. We play with different odds. We look to different futures, aspire to different goals. We are born with different souls. We bear children who are different, just different. We feast at different tables. We paint with different colors. We travel different highways. We walk in different shoes. We speak with different meanings. We settle different scores. We battle different wars. We often cling to different paths. We are different.

We live in different glass houses. We cast different stones. We tell different lies. We hide from different truths. We assume different facts. We rush to different judgments. We sing different songs. We write different wrongs. Oh, how we are different. So what are we to make of our differentness? Make it work. The truth is, we will never be exactly the same. Then what are we to do with our differentness? Embrace it. The truth is, our differentness is what we have in common.

Yivarecha adenai v'ishmerecha. Yer'ed adenai panop ei lecha v'chunecha. Yissa adenai panop ei lecha v'yaseim lecha sholay. May the Lord bless you and watch over you. May the Lord cause his countenance to shine upon you and favor you. May the Lord raise his countenance towards you and grant you shalom, peace.

Shabbat was the family time to be together. My father would study with the boys. Family would come to visit. Children played games. We all sang songs at the Shabbat table. At Chavdala, I got to hold a candle. My father told me, hold it high in hope that I would find a tall husband, and I did. We respected our parents very much. They both worked hard, so I helped by taking care of my younger brothers. I would wash their faces and put them to bed. In 1939, the Nazis came. Aeroplanes dropped bombs and burned buildings. Soon, they broke into our home and moved us to a ghetto. One day, they needed girls to work in the yarn factory. In one of the camps, they called my name. I can still hear my mother crying, don't take my child. This was the last time I saw her and the rest of my family. I worked in the concentration camp for three years. When the war was over, we lived in a displaced persons camp before we got to America in 1949. At first, it was hard. Without a language, without a profession, we didn't fit in. We came here from hell, but people didn't want to know about the Holocaust. They told us, don't talk about it, move on. It's in the past. They could not understand what we have been through, and they didn't want to know. Unless we made friends with other survivors, we were alone. My son said, mother, no more Yiddish. We have to speak English. So I learned from listening to other people. I went to night school here in Omaha to become a citizen. But even with all the good, it was still hard to be happy. Something was always missing in our lives. My husband, Norman, of Blessed memory, and I worked very hard to make a home for our family. Norman called this home his palace. We loved each other very much. I had a hard life, but I had a beautiful life. We raised two wonderful sons that gave us much joy. Everyone needs someone to care about them and to be accepted, not hated for who they are. Let it be a red flag when one human being tries to put another human being down.

In 1941, my parents were taken by the Russians to Uzbekistan. They were put into a church with other Jewish families, and months later, I was born. Each family had a corner. No beds, no food. We were allowed to go to the market, exchange clothes for food, or we could go and work in the fields. Thank God my father was able to find us. He went to work in the fields and saved us from starvation. Sadly, the Russian army found him again and sent to Mongolia to catch wild horses. When the war ended, the Russians told us, go home to Moldova. There was nothing left there, so we had to live in a shed. Then, a miracle, my father found us again and went to work on a collective farm. 1947, there was a drought. There was little food. People were starving, but my father was smart. He asked the little Jewish boy, where does your father keep the grain? The boy answered in the attic. So my father stole some of the grains, and once again, he saved us from starving. I dreamt of a life of an interesting life. When I finished the university in Belze, I became a teacher. I was married in 1975, and my daughter was born 1976. But in Belze, as in Moldova in general, it was better to hide being Jewish. We never spoke Yiddish in public, and I told Galya not to tell anyone she was Jewish. I was free and safe when I went to Israel in 1999. The government paid for half our rent and electricity. There was no anti-Semitism. There was plenty of good food. We went to concerts, traveled a lot. We had a happy life. I believe people are kind and good. I believe more people would be kind and good if they did not have to struggle to survive. At the same time, when you are Jewish, you see that some people are not always what they seem to be. They represent themselves as friends, but they are not. Let it be a red flag when one human being tries to put another human being down.