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My last name is Siedlecki and no one else can even pronounce it

By Lynda Kraar 

 

My last name is Siedlecki and no one else can even pronounce it. 

 

Siedlecki

A Polish nobleman from the village of Siedlce

sometime around 1500

A coat of arms with a cavalryman and the cross

 

Siedlecki

The people of Siedlce

their families

their descendants

their ancestors

 

Siedlecki

Daniel Siedlecki, founder of Siedlce –

not to be confused with Daniel Siedlecki

father of Abram Mojsze Siedlecki

not of Siedlce but of the Jewish holy city Konskie: My father.

 

My last name is Siedlecki and no one else can even pronounce it.

 

My Daniel Siedlecki was not the nobleman, no.

But he did become a sergeant in World War I

notable for a Jew – miracle for a Jew.

 

Siedlecki

We numbered hundreds

Abram, Daniel, Chaja

Freda, Eliezer, Ruchel

Rivke, Ari, Chaim

Matisyahu, Yidl, Shmiel

Gitl, Sureh, Leibish

We populated the farms and factories

of Tomaszów Mazowiecki, Opochno and Stuznow.

We morphed into Anklewiczes, Sawickis and Zlotogurskis.

 

Siedlecki

The other ones – the Jans, Tadeuszes and Antons –

they were chased from their towns

to the cold Russian gulags

to the colder English world -- 

only to relearn their culture

and yearn for a strong, free Poland.

They formed veterans associations

and sung songs of the Polish air force

accompanied by accordions and Sliwowicz,

poured out in thimbles at the Polish Legion hall

as if that would make it right

 

My last name is Siedlecki and no one else can even pronounce it.

 

Our Siedleckis, the Jewish ones, stayed behind in Poland.

Our Siedleckis were counted and herded

into the ghettos of Konskie, Tomaszow, Warsaw and Lodz.

 

Our Siedleckis went by train to places with names like

Poznan

Birkenau and

Auschwitz

 

Our Siedleckis went up the chimney

after gasping and choking

on Xyklon B

until blood poured from our ears and eyes.

Women, children, naked…

 

Our Siedleckis, the glorious Siedleckis who had orchards

and served in the Polish brigade

and celebrated weddings and births –

they dwindled to one Siedlecki…

 

My last name is Siedlecki and no one else can even pronounce it.

 

…my father, Abram Siedlecki,

who was not part of the veterans association

who was not decorated

whose only achievement was to escape the death camp

while the Allies were bombing the factories of IG Farben

 

Siedlecki

Were it only up to the Nazis and not also up to God,

he would have been known only as

111855 –

the number tattooed on his arm

which made me proud to be a

Siedlecki

 

My last name is Siedlecki and no one else can even pronounce it.

That is the name of the first group I ever saw fit to join on Facebook.

CHRIST HAS RISEN

 

CHRIST HAS RISEN

By Ann Szedlecki

One day I came to Aunt Katia’s house, not realizing that it was Easter. It didn’t make any difference to me. I didn’t know when Passover occurred, either. When I entered, she greeted me with, “Christos voskres!, Christ has risen!”

 

I didn’t know what to say, and she told me that I was supposed to reply, “Na vieki viekov!, Forever and ever!”

 

I reminded her that I was Jewish, but she already knew that. Still, she expected me to answer this way because Jesus was Jewish, after all. I didn’t know that. I still can’t make up my mind which of us was more ignorant. It must have been me.

 

The question about the ancestry of Jesus never came up back home. His name was never mentioned. I had to come to the Soviet Union, a godless country, to find out.

 

For the Easter holiday she killed a pig and then made blood sausage. She offered to share it with me. I refused and almost gagged just looking at it. It must have been my Jewish background. Not that I ate kosher food in Siberia. And where would I get any, anyway? It was the blood I could not tolerate.

 

She called me maya malenkaya zhidovetchka, my little Jewess. It sounded endearing. We were fond of each other and she was very lonely, too.

"Christ Has Risen" became part of the award-winning book "Album of My Life," by Ann Szedlecki, (c) 2009, as part of Series II of the Azrieli Series of Holocaust Survivor Memoirs, published by the Azrieli Foundation. Released in English and in French, "Album of My Life" is still popular and available.

The Last Dayenu by Ann Szedlecki

The Last Dayenu 

by Ann Szedlecki

The annual rites of spring began when the housewives dumped the old straw from the mattresses and replaced it with fresh smelling straw. Passover couldn’t be far off. My mother’s homemade wine was distilled, drop after drop running through clean linen, leaving a deposit. The linen was changed a few times until the wine was clear. A large jar held cut-up red beets and water filled to the top that was going to ferment. Vinegar was not allowed, because it is a product of wheat—chametz[1]—and there was also our borscht.[2]

Our large laundry basket, by now well scrubbed and lined with a large white sheet, was ready to store the matzah (unleavened bread eaten on Passover). We had Passover dishes and cutlery, but we didn’t have a Passover set of pots and pans. Our dishes were made kosher[3] by a man who pulled a wagon containing metal vats with hot water. By dipping the pots and pans in the water, the cookware was declared kosher for Passover.

My public school, Number 132 in Lodz, which only Jewish girls attended, was located on No. 19 Wierzbowa, Willow Street. Classes were taught in Polish. For Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year), we were asked to bring some items to be distributed amongst needy students. The same went for Passover. The food tank was an old tradition. We never knew who was being helped; all I knew was that I was the giver. This tradition was instilled in me from an early age.

For Passover, I was outfitted in new clothing: new ribbons for my braids; new underwear and socks; a dress; and, finally, new shoes. My mother always took me shopping, but in the spring of 1939 she could not spare the time.

We had a new addition to our family. My 23-year-old sister had given birth to a baby girl, Miriam, making me an aunt at almost 14. My mother was busy helping my sister cope with the baby. The task of buying me shoes fell to my aunt, Tauba Glika, my mother’s middle sister, who was childless. Sarah Rivka, my youngest aunt—she was also childless—had been thrown out of Germany a year before. She had enough problems of her own and couldn’t participate in our Passover preparations.

Upon entering the shoe store, my aunt immediately asked for a pair of flat, black patent-leather shoes with a strap, the kind I had worn since age five. My eyes were drawn to a pair of blue suede pumps trimmed with pink leather X’s and, most importantly, a three centimetre heal. My mind was made up. I wanted those shoes. A battle of wills ensued: it was to be those shoes or none. I emerged victorious, much to the delight of my sister, who applauded me for asserting my independence. By the way, she liked the shoes so much that she also wore them sometimes.

The wooden floor of our kitchen was scoured with sand to get out the oil stains left by the sewing machines. The kitchen was my father’s working area, as well as my mother’s cooking domain. The only other room was a dining room, minus our beautiful black dining set. The table and chairs had been repossessed by the city for non-payment of taxes. It was just as well, there was no place for the set. The other half of the room had two beds: one lounge for my brother and a metal child’s bed for me. It was really getting too short.

Red wax was applied to the floor and allowed to dry. Finally, a heavy polisher was pushed manually to give the floor a shine. After all of these preparations, we followed our father through the house on the evening before the first Seder.[4] With candles in our hands and a feather in his, and we went through every corner of the house to get out the last bits of chametz trapped in the crevices. The chametz was to be burned the next morning.

            

By noon the next day, everything was ready for the festivities: the beautifully ironed white tablecloth; the polished sterling silver candlesticks; and the armchair, where my father was going to sit, leaning on a huge pillow. On the table we had china, cutlery, napkins, wine glasses, and a beautifully embroidered matzah cover in front of my father’s seat. On the round plate, there was a roasted egg, a shank bone, bitter herbs, and other foods that are blessed at the Seder.  Mouth-watering smells emanated from the kitchen. My stomach was growling, but it would have to wait.

My sister, her husband, and the baby arrived. There were six adults, but only four chairs. The lounge chair was put against the table for me and my older brother, Shoel. The women lit the candles and said the blessings. We opened the Haggadot[5], and the Seder began. My brother asked the Four Questions, even though I was the youngest (except for the baby). I checked Elijah the Prophet’s cup to see if he drank from it.

Everything went smoothly until we reached “Dayenu.”[6] As far as I could remember, I had always giggled when I heard this song. This year, I was almost 14 and an aunt. I had hoped that I had outgrown the laughing, but there was no such luck. As we came closer to “Dayenu” my father’s blue eyes, beneath bushy black brows, fixed on me as though asking me to behave. I got up from the table, hand on my mouth. When I reached the kitchen, the giggles I was holding back erupted.

A short while later I rejoined the family. The afikoman[7] was on top of the wardrobe and easy to find. My sister, her husband, and the baby left quite late. I had trouble falling asleep. I was waiting for the morning to arrive so I could put on all my new clothes to impress my friends.

The aroma from the kitchen woke me up. My mother was preparing breakfast for me. It wasn’t very fancy. During Passover, she served either matzah brie or bubbaleh (dishes made with matzah and eggs). In those days, we didn’t worry about cholesterol. Tea with lemon followed. My special treat was sponge cake with wine. Pouring the wine over the cake, I waited for the liquid to be absorbed. It tasted heavenly, just like a tort.

After breakfast, I joined my girlfriends in the courtyard. We played hopscotch, and my new shoes got scuffed. I used a brush with special bristles to fix the shoes.

My aunt, Sarah Rivka, the Berliner, came to join us for lunch. Afterward, she took me to see a movie, The Great Waltz. My aunt was a very attractive woman in her 40’s. Beautifully dressed, she drew admiring glances from the holiday crowd filling the main streets on this warm, sunny spring day full of promise.

On the way home we passed Rumba, the new ice cream parlour. It was crowded. I was tempted to go in, but I resisted. I remember being so proud walking beside Sarah Rivka. I didn’t want the day to end, but it was getting late and the preparations for the second Seder were in full swing.

I wondered how I would react to “Dayenu” that night. To tell the truth, I don’t remember. But it would be many years before I heard “Dayenu” again. By then, I didn’t find the song funny. The beautiful time we shared as a family was shattered and taken away from us so tragically as a result of the Holocaust. Only fond memories remain.

Originally published in the Canadian Jewish News, "The Last Dayenu" became part of the award-winning book "Album of My Life," by Ann Szedlecki, (c) 2009, as part of Series II of the Azrieli Series of Holocaust Survivor Memoirs, published by the Azrieli Foundation. Published in English and in French, "Album of My Life" is still popular and available.

Footnotes

[1] Bread, grains, and leavened products that are not consumed on the Jewish holiday of Passover.

[2] A soup, often made with beets, that is popular in many Eastern and Central European countries.

[3] Kosher foods are those that conform to Jewish dietary laws such as not including ingredients derived from non-kosher animals or from kosher animals that were not properly slaughtered and not mixing meat and dairy.

[4] A ritual feast that marks the beginning of Passover.

[5] Books read on Passover containing the story of the Israelites’ Exodus from Egypt and the ritual of the Seder.

[6] A song at the end of the Haggadah about being grateful to G-d for the blessings He bestowed upon the Jewish people during the Exodus from Egypt and their journey to the Land of Israel. Dayenu means it would have sufficed.

[7] A half piece of matzah that is broken at the early stages of the Seder and set aside to be eaten as a dessert after the meal.