As a child, I remember the weight of invisible relatives who were murdered during the Holocaust.
My Zaida (grandfather) Joseph Kaltmann was the sole survivor of his family, losing his 17-year-old sister, Renee, his 16-year-old brother, Poldi, his mother, Pesil, and his father, Max. Their photos dotted his living room, copies of originals saved from the fires of the Holocaust by a gentile neighbour who had stored some of the Kaltmann family’s most precious assets.
The bittersweet nature of survival was ever present in my childhood. In Ashkenazic Jewish tradition one does not name after people who die young, deeming it bad luck, which means not one of his tens of grandchildren was named after his brother and sister who were murdered. It’s what Zaida wanted, but I’m sure, on some level, it was devastating not to be able to perpetuate their memories in the most tangible way on earth.
I once asked Zaida, “What colour were Renee’s eyes?” I was in primary school and was completing a research project on the Holocaust. I still remember as Zaida’s big blue eyes, shared by so many of my siblings, thought through my question carefully, before responding with tears in his eyes “I don’t remember.” My grandfather never complained about the hand he had been dealt, but I know he made a point of extolling his gratitude to Australia.
Read the article by Gabi Kaltmann in The Age.