Miriam is not her true name. The story of how a potato at Chanukah helped her survive the Holocaust is unbelievable and all too true. Most survivor stories are. With one of the best equipped, trained and motivated armies determined to murder all the world’s Jews, and with practically none of the nations offering sanctuary, it’s something of a miracle that even one of every three European Jews survived.
Before she reached her teens, Miriam was forced into slavery. Her only sibling, along with other young men in the city, fled eastward to evade the advancing German army. Where and what his circumstances were, weighed more heavily on her and their parents than all the agonies of ghetto life.
When she trudged home, exhausted after another long, freezing day of shoveling snow, she forced her mind to dwell on how good life was before the war, before all the terror and loss of home, family, friends and neighbors. Food was abundant. School was fun and she excelled at her studies. How she yearned to return to those carefree years.
Now, even gloves were forbidden to Jews. Her hands—calloused, blistered and chapped—ached. Miriam looked forward to warming them over a bowl of hot soup. Her parents always insisted she eat it all, telling her they had eaten enough. She knew it was pretense, an expression of love and concern. Her protests were useless. Famished, she always swallowed both gratitude and guilt with each precious spoonful and each morsel of bread.
When she arrived at the miserable, cramped quarters they now occupied, Miriam was upset by the scene that greeted her. Her parents, who rarely argued, were having a heated argument, her mother screaming hysterically, about a potato that her father had turned into a chanukiah. They no longer possessed their silver menorah or any of their valuables. What had not been buried, or given to their former maid for safekeeping, had been taken by the Nazis.
How, her mother demanded, could they celebrate when they didn’t know if their son was dead or alive? And who needed a menorah when the family was starving? They were modern Jews, not Hasidim. The potato and bits of margarine to fuel the wicks would be better eaten.
Miriam’s father countered that as much as they needed food, it was more important to commemorate the holiday of hope and miracles. This humble menorah would serve as a reminder that, like the Maccabees, they would fight fear and despair. The argument ended in tears and hugs. Lights kindled, prayers and songs were chanted. Soup never tasted as good to Miriam as it did that night.
Ghettos were holding pens for deportation. Eventually, Miriam’s family was herded into a cattle car. Majdanek was the final destination, and most knew Majdanek was a death camp. Escape was risky at best and usually fatal. The Germans stationed soldiers atop the cars to shoot those attempting to flee. The sealed cars were so crowded people could barely move or breathe. The only air came from a small, glassless window near the top. Desperation and Herculean efforts were required to pry an opening between the iron rods. Few had the needed tools or strength.
Miriam’s car was an exception. Her parents urged her to try to squeeze through the bars. She refused to leave them, and was also afraid. Even if she could make it out of the narrow opening, she would probably not survive the jump from the moving train. Ultimately, her father convinced her she had to try, if only to tell what had happened. They lifted her up and helped push her toward what they hoped was life.
It was dark when she regained consciousness, bruised and covered in blood. She’d landed on rocks, gravel and glass shards along the rails. She’d been shot, had a sprained ankle, a gash in her head and cuts and abrasions all over her body. A couple of peasants stood over her. They had stripped her of her shabby dress and were pulling her to her feet, eager to bring her to the Gestapo, for the two kilos of sugar reward.
Suddenly a man in blue uniform approached, chasing the peasants away. Thinking he was a policeman, Miriam wished she hadn’t jumped. She had seen policemen and ordinary German soldiers commit unspeakable horrors in the ghetto, and was terrified.
He assured the 14-year-old he was only the station master. He led her to the station, gave her an old jacket and told her she could spend the night there but would have to leave before daybreak, when his shift ended. Where in the world could she go? He shrugged, “Just follow the tracks.”
She obeyed him, as well as other angels she met along her painful and perilous journey. She, herself, doesn’t use the words “miracles” or “angels.” However, many who hear her story of her many close encounters with death think otherwise.
After the war, Miriam enjoyed a happy marriage, two children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, as well as devoted friendships. Last month, she was thrilled to welcome another great-grandchild.
Honoring her father’s request to become a witness, Miriam has educated and inspired thousands. She still carries the bullet in her hip because doctors deemed surgery too dangerous. She also carries memories of the many times she survived against all odds, and of the potato chanukiah that brightened her darkest moments and filled her with the hope and determination to prevail and live in freedom. The girl sent to death just celebrated her 95th birthday.
Barbara Wind is a writer, speaker and Holocaust-related independent scholar, curator and consultant.
By Barbara Wind
