Stories of Survival: Object. Image. Memory.: October 2018

Camp Uniform

"To me looking at this picture brings back memories. I feel like I am reliving a painful past so the world will never forget those that were left in the past."

Stories of Survival: Image. Object. Memory. (VIDEO)

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Bremen, Germany

With storm clouds gathering on the horizon, my aunt’s teddy bear was buried in a backyard for safekeeping. My aunt and grandfather weathered the torrent and returned to Germany after three years in Theresienstadt in Czechoslovakia. After learning of the damage caused by the deluge, my aunt and grandfather wrote to my mother in America informing her that Tante Regine, Onkel Siegfried, Georg, Tante Toni, Hugo and his two sisters and Onkel Moritz and his family had been engulfed by the surge. In the aftermath of the storm, my aunt was reunited with her childhood teddy bear.

Berlin, Germany

Sept. 4th, 2017 This typewriter that you see here was made and brought from Berlin, Germany to this United States in 1939. A really very special typewriter, as it was the actual instrument that saved our 3 lives (Mom, Dad and Me). This very instrument helped us to immigrate legally to the U.S.A in March of 1939. We lived in Berlin, Germany, Hitler had already been in power for 3 years (1936). My mother, Betty Frankel, of blessed memory Z’’L, used this typewriter to correspond with relatives in Chicago. She asked if they could sponsor us, so that we would be able to come to the U.S.A. After typing many letters with this typewriter to these relatives and assuring them that we would not be a burden to them but would do any type of work to be financially independent, they agreed to sponsor us. It finally happened! We were able to immigrate to America. This was truly a miracle. Especially after having witnessed KRISTALLNACHT in 1938! Around that time we went through a very traumatic experience with the S.S. (Secret Service). It is this very special typewriter we brought to America that saved 3 lives. With much gratitude I remain a proud American.

Chereya, Soviet Union

(From left to right) My dad fasted on March 06 every year for as long as I can remember. This was the date in 1942, that his family, along with other Jewish people in his hometown of Chereya were killed by the Nazis. This is a picture of the letter he received from the head of the post office in his village (“Mestechko”), Chereya confirming his worst fear–his family death. My dad grew up in Chereya, and he was in university when the war started. His family (parents, 2 brothers, and a sister) remained in Chereya. He had sent them a letter to find out their fate, hoping they were still alive, and received a return notification of their death. My dad last saw his family in 1941. He joined the Soviet Army shortly after and served till the war ended in 1945. He married my mom, his wife, in 1948. They had two sons. In 1989, they left with my brother towards America. In 1991, my family joined them. In 2007 we (my dad, mom, brother, and I) took a trip to Chereya. It took 65 years for my dad to visit the place where this horrible even occurred. The place where his family was killed. My dad had always been a record keeper–he kept a diary throughout the war and continued to document events throughout the life after visiting Chereya in ’07. My dad wrote an autobiography using these diaries. He dedicated this book to his family, and to the future generations. He wasn’t one to share unless asked, but after visiting his childhood village so many years later, knew that these stories needed to be told. He knew they could not be forgotten. There are two lessons to be learned from his story. This first, as is often the case with stories from the Holocaust, is to never forget. It happened, it cannot be forgotten, and it cannot be repeated with anyone. The second is that anybody can rebuild their life, even when tragic things happen you can overcome the tragedy and create a good life.

Antwerp, Belgium

This domino set was given to me by “St. Nicholas” (the counterpart of Santa Claus), on December 6, 1943, when I was 7 years old. December 6 was the traditional date when St. Nicholas came down the chimney with gifts for Belgian children. At that time, I was hidden with my parents in a small town outside of Brussels. Because I was attending a Catholic school (under a false name), my parents wanted to be sure that I, like the other children, had received a gift from St. Nicholas, who by the way, wrote his name on the outside of the box, together with mine. Olga Weiss Olga and her family fled from Belgium to France in the early days of the war, only to return to Belgium believing that they would be safe. Olga was hidden under a false identity during the war. She and her parents immigrated to the US in 1950.

Linz, Austria

My mother, FEJGA GOTKIN was born in Vilno, Poland. She was the only member of her family to survive. Two sisters, a brother-in-law, her mother and a nephew perished during the Holocaust. At the age of 13, my mother hid with the partisans in the forest along with other people fleeing for their lives. When the war was over, having no places to go, she began to walk back to her town of Vilno. Miraculously, she met up with her father on the road. He had also been living with the partisans in the forest. Once reaching the town, they saw it had been completely destroyed. The Allies were there and my mother, grandfather, and other people were taken to a Displaced Persons camp in the British Zone of Austria. My grandfather was so weak from lack of food that he soon died of hunger at the Displaced Persons camp. That left my young teenage mother all alone. My father, SZYMON MATKOWSKI, was born in Lomza, Poland, one of five children. Two sisters had immigrated to Israel before the war. My father was apprehended by the Russians and was soon exiled to Siberia. He was put into solitary confinement for an unknown reason. When Germany turned on Russia, all prisoners were given the opportunity to be released if they agreed to join the Russian Revolutionary Army. During basic training my father deserted and went to search or his family, but the rest of his family had perished in the Holocaust. He ended up working for the Red Cross in the same Displaced Persons camp where my mother was living. He was distributing bread rations and my mother was in the line. She caught his eye, he began courting her and they married in November 1947 while living at the camp. I was born in this camp on August 10, 1948 and named Sara Leah Malka Matkowski, after my maternal grandparents. While in the camp we were supported by the Red Cross and HIAS. I lived there from the time I was born until April 1951, when we immigrated as a family to the United States. Children born in the camps were considered to be stateless, meaning they had no country of origin. Although my parents were considered Polish, since I was born at the camp, I was stateless. At that time, Austria was divided into three individual zones: The American Zone, the French Zone, and the British Zone. Each zone had its own group of Displaced Persons. I was born in the British Zone.

Germany

Tante (Aunt) Irma was my mother’s older sister. As a young girl she went to work in the kitchen of a nearby resort. There she was introduced to gourmet recipes for her handwritten cookbook. Thus she became a fabulous cook. But after immigrating to Milwaukee, Wisconsin in May 1939, with our extended family, she only would cook for her husband and son. Unfortunately her only child, Arnold Schwarz passed away in 1948 at age 18 of acute Leukemia. As was the custom, single girls started their own hand-written recipe books and added on throughout their life. My mother, Hannah Vogel also had such a book, which I still treasure. Ellen Vogel Glass

Sagan, Germany

(Clockwise from top left) Harry wrote this journal while POW at Stalug Luft III in Sagan, Germany (now Sagan, Poland). It was a POW camp for Air Force officers. In this journal, he describes in vivid detail both the compound and the living conditions. The journal contains not only illustrations such as those pictured, but also poems and thoughts of home. A natural artist, Harry drew detailed diagrams of the compound as well as the tunnels dug by prisoners.

Germany

It was 1938 and the Nazi party had been in control of Germany since 1933. I was born in 1934. We lived in the town of Gotha. The Nuremburg Laws of 1935 had taken away our German citizenship and my parents decided to hopefully leave Germany and that it was time to try to go to America where cousins of ours were living. It was now 1938. Normalcy of life had become more difficult. Plans were made to leave. Exit and entry laws were very strict. The family was only allowed to take the equivalent of 4 US dollars out of the country and were required to pay a huge “Reich Flight” property tax based on the value of our belongings. My father purchased this wonderful Marklin electric train set for me to take with us to America. It was a great “toy” which was always loved by me, my children, and my grandchildren through these many years. We have donated the train set to the Illinois Holocaust Museum and are very proud to have it be part of this exhibit. 80 years have gone by after the train left Germany with our family. We were saved by the cousins in Chicago who sponsored our ability to enter the U.S. That was the only way German Jews like us and our train were able to escape the Nazis and find a new home and life in the United States of America. Ralph Rehbock July 4, 2017

Rwanda

This dress belongs to Clarisse Uwonkunda, my daughter; she was five during the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi. I found it in a grave in Rubavu, Western Province, Rwanda. Last January 2017, I went to Rwanda and wanted to find your bodies (skeleton) and restore your dignity. I found you on January 20th and took you to the memorial site of Nyanza, Kicukiro. I was exhausted after that; I expected to be relieved and feel grateful for that accomplishment but instead became so sick. My muscles were not working, I spent weeks in bed recalling every detail of before your trip to Ruhango and the day of our separation. Our wish was for you to survive even if we die. We could not imagine someone killing a 3 or 5 year old. Helas, no chance for me! God only know! Immaculee Mukantaganira Clarissa Uwonkunda’s Dress (was bought in Egypt when his father was traveling there). • Bodies deteriorate • Bones are found apart • Clothes/dresses are dirty, bloody but keep their forms.

Sosnowiec, Poland

My name is Sala Lewis and I am the person pictured on the right side of this photograph, taken in 1946. My sister, Dora Winiarz, is pictured on the left. No person was more responsible for my surviving the Holocaust than my sister. As Polish Jews, the war came quickly to our country. Very early on, Jews old enough to work received notifications to report for work and were sent to numerous work camps. My sister, who was the oldest in our family of nine children, was one of the first to go. When the remaining Jews in our town were rounded up in 1942, I was still at home with my parents as were my two younger brother and sister. They, along with my father, mother and baby nephew were among the Jews brought to a school for deportation to Auschwitz. I was not home. When I found out where everyone had been taken, I went to the school and saw my mother standing in the window. She told me not to come in and sent me on an errand she knew would keep me long enough to avoid being deported. When I returned, the Jews were gone. Alone, and sleeping on rooftops, I turned myself in when the last roundup of Jews occurred in my town of Sosnowiec. I remembered where I heard my sister had been sent, and when I reached the front of the line, I asked the German officer to send me there. He looked at me and pushed me into a line that then boarded the train. When we reached our destination, the doors to the train opened, and I saw my sister’s face looking back at me. She fed me food and went hungry. She took on extra chores to make life easier for me. She cared for me through typhus and numerous other illnesses and made sure that I had the extra water or food I needed to survive them. And after the war, when I was diagnosed with tuberculosis, it was her face I saw when the doctors thought I would not survive the night. That is why this picture of us together frames the Holocaust for me. I survived because of my sister and she became the mother I lost throughout the remainder of my life. With my name Sala Lewis

Iraq

This picture was taken back on Feb 11, 2013 while I was praying at Lalish temple. I prayed for the whole world to be safe and sound. We as Yezidis always pray for all human kind and call for peace and safety. Diyar Hazim Farhan Al Bozani Lincoln, Nebraska, 2018

Suwałki, Poland

As I look at this photograph, I realize once again the brilliancy and guts my beloved parents Ruth and David S. Bern had in order to leave their families, their palatial home, all their possessions and livelihood for shores unknown! My parents saw the Nazi parades, heard the news of Kristallnacht and knew they needed to get out of Poland in September 1939 as soon as possible. Thank G-d they were able to have the resources to buy visas to Lithuania or Russia. In the middle of the night with a toddler (me) and from there go to Japan where we were lucky enough to meet our hero a Japanese consul in Lithuania, Chiune Sugihara, to sign passports to get us to Japan from Lithuania. Where we were able to stay for 6 months. Then my parents were able to get passage for us out of Japan to Canada on the HIKAWA MARU. The last boat out of Japan before Pearl Harbor and no more boats (or ways out of Japan) for refugees and FREEDOM!

Iraq/Syria

(From right to left) When I felt danger threaten my life, and the life of my family, I took some clothes and put them in bags, then I went to the kitchen and took this plate that always reminds me of my mother, when she used to cook biryani and served it to us during holidays in Iraq. Whenever I see it, I remember the holidays in our house and how beautiful they were, and how they carried the real meaning of holidays. I remember every Christmas when I see this plate, and I remember my sisters, brothers, and the beautiful, safe days we spent in our home in Iraq. We ate on this plate since childhood and on every holiday until 2005, when I left to go to the south of Iraq, then to Syria, and then to Chicago. Can you believe how many times this plate has traveled, from the areas of Iraq, to other Arab regions, then to America!! This plate reminds me of my precious mother… Susan Birwari I couldn’t abandon this plate and leave…I wanted something that reminds me of my mother and my home… (Translation from Arabic) Susan Birwari Baghdad, Iraq, June, 19, 1961 - Plate Czechoslovakia, ca. 1946 On loan courtesy of Susan Birwari Reflections by Susan Birwari

Cambodia

This Khmer copper urn is a gift from my greatgrandparents who had kept it for generations. It is the souvenir I love most because my greatgrandparents gave it to me before they passed away.

Bosnia and Herzegovina,

We would use whatever we could to create to create distractions from our current situation–an empty box of crackers became a chessboard or a deck of playing cards–anything to help to pass the time. Of course, all this had to be done secretly. Nevertheless, this has helped as to draw attention, at least in short moments, from our cruel reality. Mirsad Causevic Bosnia and Hercegovina

Bosnia and Herzegovina

We would use whatever we could to create to create distractions from our current situation–an empty box of crackers became a chessboard or a deck of playing cards–anything to help to pass the time. Of course, all this had to be done secretly. Nevertheless, this has helped as to draw attention, at least in short moments, from our cruel reality. Mirsad Causevic Bosnia and Hercegovina

South Sudan

Family reunion: 20 years later! On Wednesday, December 26, 2007, I stood among hundred of my village children, waiting to be introduced to the students who warmly welcomed me to the village I had been gone for 20 years. As I stood with my left hand in my pocket, right hand with a pen on my chin, and attentively listening as beautiful school children singing and clapping as they welcomed me and two of my American friends namely Brandi Reissenweber and her husband Chris Curl, there was so much occupying my mind. First, I was happy for the reunion with my family and people of my beloved village and also excited for the fact that I was proudly standing from the field that reminded me about all my childhood. Pongborong was occupied as a cattle camp during the rainy season. When the cattle are taken close to the River Nile during the dry season, children from the surrounding villages would gather there for activities. Second, those school children knew I was coming from America and expected me to help them with education. Finally, I knew my visit to the country that was set to gain independence in 4 years to come was the beginning of my long term responsibilities because I am a member of war survivors that was often referred as “seed of the nation” by our Southern Sudanese leaders who were fighting the Islamic-Arab led government of Sudan. Peter Magai Bul October 10, 2017 In front of me from right is my niece Abul Kuer Bul Peter Magai Bul Wangulei, South Sudan, January 1, 1982 - Photograph Pongborong, South Sudan, 2007 On loan courtesy of Peter Magai Bul Reflections by Peter Magai Bul

Frankfurt, Germany

This oil painting which belonged to my family for generations, was vandalized on Kristallnacht November 9, 1938. It hung in our house in Bad Hamburg, Germany where I saw it every day. It was recovered after the war by a cousin who recognized the portrait and he brought it back to me in the USA. I remember Kristallnacht very distinctly. I was 19 years old, living at home with my parents and only brother. It was early afternoon when 8 to 10 men broke into our house with clubs and axes and began destroying our beautiful belongings. The NOISE was deafening from their frenzy of destruction. We knew that our lives are in danger. I escaped thru a window, later to return to see the complete destruction. After this horrendous day, my mother said, “If they can do that to us today, what will they do to us tomorrow.” “The children have their whole life ahead of them.” She was able arranging our official paperwork to immigrate to a hopefully safer place. I was able to go to England and my brother to Holland, which was eventually occupied by the Nazis. The Nazis arrested him and he was sent to Mauthausen Concentration Camp, where he was killed at age 21. My parents were deported to Theresienstadt and also killed. I donated my painting to the museum as a permanent reminder of events during the Nazi regime. Marianne Rothschild Schwab, 98 years old,

Bosnia and Herzegovina

I was seven.

Mannheim, Germany

I remember this purse on the shelf of a glass - covered china cabinet in my grandparents’ home. The cabinet had several shelves on top with pretty tea cups, porcelain figurines, some glass and silver items and this purse. My uncle, Robert Kahn, told me that my Oma (grandmother, Martha Kahn) would use this purse on special occasions. Children were not allowed to open the sliding glass door. For me the glass was a window on a life style that was gone. None of the items in the cabinet were ever used in America. I heard the story of how these beautiful objects were hidden as my grandparents fled from Mannheim to Luxembourg through France and Spain and finally to the USA. At that time, my mother, Irene Poll, was hidden in Lille, France by a priest. At times, I sensed my grandparents’ sadness for the life in Germany they had lost. They never spoke about it except for a rare “Bei uns” loosely translated as “the way it was there.” I always knew the life that had been taken from them had been very lovely. When my grandparents, mother and uncle looked at the items in the cabinet, the sad and happy memories would come back

Iraq

This is my ticket from when I first traveled from Iraq to the United States on July 4, 2012. I have kept this ticket in my wallet for the past 6 years because it reminds me of when I first left my country. I stayed one day in Jordan and the second day I went to New York then Chicago and finally arrived in Nebraska. Now I study Biochemistry and Pre-Pharmacy at UNL. I will graduate in May of 2018.

Muko, Rwanda

Raissa Umutoni was wearing this dress on June 12, 1994. When the 1994 genocide took her. This was a beautiful dress. Raissa wore it with a white sweater and sandals. She looked beautiful in that dress. Her father, Thaddee Ruzirabwoba, took every opportunity to take a picture of her especially after work as he enjoyed being with them. You can see here that colors faded but the dress’s parts stick together. Raissa cried during the nights calling for our attention couple times. Her dad would not let me go and console her and convince her to go back to sleep. Her young brother kept me busy and her dad would not let me get up in the middle of the night. “You are tired, you were busy all day, let me help her, I have to help you.” So, I did not have to worry about Raissa or Clarisse, dad would get up, change them, give them milk and then convince them to go back to sleep. Thank you honey! You were unique! Dress was bought from London by one of our friends, who travelled to Europe. Thank you Charles, you have been a blessing to Thaddee, my children and I. Our children were the center of our home, budget, celebration, holidays, family turned around the needs of our kids. I am so grateful that we provided to them all they wanted (they were very happy). I was very much blessed to look at them holding hands knowing they had a bright future. Clarisse and Raissa were very bright kids and we were proud parents. I will always remember you with gratitude.

Brussels, Belgium

I was born in Belgium, a little country in Western Europe, some ten months before the beginning of World War II. Belgium’s neutrality was violated when the German army attacked the French and British forces through Belgium and Luxembourg on May 10, 1940. That event persuaded my parents to take my sister and I and flee to France. However, the French were unfriendly to refugees, particularly Jewish refugees, so my parents, my sister and I returned to Belgium. Upon our return to Belgium, my father joined the Belgian underground. Once Belgium capitulated and the German occupied all of Belgium, they instituted their restrictive racial laws and my father could no longer work. However, my father was a born salesman and in order to make a living, he acted as a broker for buyers and sellers of a variety of things. Also, the Germans confiscated all motor vehicles so my father had to travel from city to city by train. My earliest recollection about my father’s travels was that he carried a small suitcase, the one that you see pictured here. I do not know what it contained, but he always carried it with him. It may have contained things that he used to make a living, or it may have contained documents pertaining to his work with the underground. I do not know and my father never told me. Throughout the war, until our liberation in the fall of 1944, my father carried that little suitcase with him. In 1945, we befriended a United States G.I. from the Bronx, in New York. His name was Maurice Levy and he worked for the U.S. Postal Service. He had taught himself to speak, read and write in French and could also converse and read and write Jewish. He became a frequent guest at our home. He and his buddies spent many nights with my family. He would bring the raw materials and my mother would cook home-cooked meals for him and his fellow G.I.s. When he mustered out of the service in 1945, he searched for my mother’s family in Chicago, Illinois. After finding my mother’s aunt and uncle who had immigrated to the U.S. during the early part of the 20th century, they immediately undertook to start the sponsorship for our coming to America. Because of the quota system existing at the time, we did not obtain our visas to immigrate to the United States until December, 1949. When we left Belgium, the little suitcase came with us. My mother’s family arranged passage for us on the Queen Mary and the little suitcase bears the decal of the Cunard White Star Line used by the Queen Mary. The ship has been decommissioned and is now moored in Long Beach, California. The little suitcase may have been used by my father for important work for the allied cause during the War. It seems that it was significant enough for my parents to continue to use that little suitcase and bring it to America. It has a long history and it is my sister and my pleasure to have it displayed at the Illinois Holocaust

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About Me

Jim Lommasson: Jim Lommasson is a freelance photographer living in Portland, OR. Lommasson received the Dorothea Lange–Paul Taylor Prize from The Center for Documentary Studies at Duke University for his first book, "Shadow Boxers: Sweat, Sacrifice and The Will To Survive In American Boxing Gyms." Lommasson's book "Exit Wounds: Soldiers’ Stories – Life After Iraq and Afghanistan" and exhibition about U.S. Veterans from the Iraq and Afghanistan Wars was published in 2015. He is an Oregon Humanities Conversation Project Grant recipient for his public discussion "Life after War." Lommasson was awarded a Regional Arts and Culture Council Grant for "What We Carried: Fragments and Memories from the Cradle of Civilization." What We Carried is a collaborative storytelling project with displaced Iraqi and Syrian refugees. What We Carried was exhibited at The Ellis Island National Museum of Immigration in 2019. "Stories of Survival: Object. Image. Memory." about Holocaust and genocide survivors created with the Illinois Holocaust Museums is traveling to museums in the U.S. "Stories of Survival: Genocide Remembrance and Prevention" was exhibited at The United Nation Headquarters Gallery in NYC Spring 2023.

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