A Memoir
By
Leslie Golding Mastroianni
Since this is a free forum for people to publish what they write, then I’ll take the opportunity and go ahead. After all, I have debts to pay. I lost part of my family, who were living in Poland during WWII, to the Holocaust. Interestingly, my personal Holocaust story dovetails with another story regarding one of my favorite days as a mobile therapist. “Favorite” doesn’t always have to mean “good.” This day was the most memorable in my career as a mobile therapist.
I was working with a young man who had major developmental setbacks. His behavior was really OK. He needed help in school; he went “off task” very easily and my job was to accompany him to classes—all Special Learning classes—to give him reminders about paying attention to the teacher.
Miles had a history and civics class in the mornings and I went there with him. This teacher made the subject so interesting that I ended up taking notes so I could remember some of the things he said. One day in May the teacher decided to take the class on a one-day trip to Washington, DC. (This was when I was living in Philadelphia.) There was an extra seat on the bus and he graciously offered it to me. For $35 I got a comfortable seat on the bus, round trip, to Washington. I knew Miles would not need me much because his behavior outside school was fine, so I knew I would have little to do. I grabbed the opportunity.
This teacher had his own ideas of what he wanted to do in Washington. He wanted to take the group on a quick tour through many of the museums and public buildings there, then end up at the National Holocaust Museum. I made an on-the-spot decision to bow out—I told this nice teacher that I would spend the whole day in the National Holocaust Museum while the rest made their whirlwind tour.
It was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I believe that every Jew should do what I did; not just browse through this place but stay there and not run if overwhelmed…and I was overwhelmed that day, many times, but given the circumstances, I could not run away. I had to wait to meet my group.
There were several short movies that were shown, over and over, during this day and I sat through all of them four times over. I went through the whole museum slowly, looking, watching others’ expressions, listening to others talking. I saw horrifying things—photographs, instruments of torture, the yellow star that Jews had to wear, and more.
There were some Holocaust survivors working in this museum as volunteers. Their purpose was to be available so that visitors could ask them questions and talk to them. I couldn’t bring myself to do this—I could hardly look at them. I was so afraid. What was I afraid of, I can’t say. This was over ten years ago and I still don’t know the basis of my fear. Further examination of this phenomenon leads me to this point: they had lived in hell, they had actually seen and heard these unspeakable crimes–and here they were. A miracle? A mitzvah? Who can say.
When the day was over—everyone was exhausted—we sat in the dark bus as it made its way north to Philadelphia. Even the noisy kids sat quietly, talking softly to each other. Lots of people slept. I looked out of the window, my mind blank. It was peaceful and I know that sounds strange due to the content of this day I’d just lived through, but who can question peace? It had been uplifting, I know that much. I had set this day apart from all other days for the memory of the family I lost, all the Jewish lives that were lost, and maybe those long gone people were aware of my small effort. This is my hope.
lgmwriting 