Italy was an exciting trip for my family. It was the perfect way to end the summer, and as a history major, I was eager to absorb a new wealth of culture.
My family of four was excited to venture east and enjoy a thrilling trip abroad. Being Massachusetts natives, our exposure to Italian culture had been limited to Boston’s infamous North End and old recipes from our Italian family friends, who seemed to perpetually endorse and admire their ancestral stronghold. My parents, my sister, and I grew increasingly more excited as the weeks progressed toward our departure date.
Unexpectedly, the greatest historical lesson of our trip came not from ancient ruins but from a small, intimate workshop. Midway through the week of travel, we boarded a boutique cruise in Venice, which turned out to be the pinnacle of our voyage. We soon learned that Leora Raikin, founder of the David Labkovski Project—a nonprofit teaching communities about the Holocaust through the artwork of survivor David Labkovski—was hosting an interactive art workshop on board, and my sister and I promptly signed up.
When we arrived at the workshop, the space was filled with women of all ages—from my teenage sister to retirees who had been travelling Europe for months. We each took a spot in the sunroom of the ship, a venue with windows on every wall, and collectively directed our attention to the front of the room. Leora began with an introduction to David Labkovski’s work, explaining his background, history, and her familial connection to him. We were then instructed to choose one of Labkovski’s artworks that resonated with us and to paint in a way that reflected our interpretation.
Labkovski’s art is a masterful pursuit of emotion. Each work holds a story, offering a glimpse into the past and into the artist’s own memory. Throughout his life, Labkovski documented his experiences through transformative art. Born in 1906, the Lithuanian–Jewish artist gained recognition with his poignant paintings that captured the Holocaust and its effects on the Jewish people. The turbulent events of the 20th century left a lasting impression on Labkovski, whose artwork serves as a moving testament to the horrors he witnessed while imprisoned. Born in Vilnius, Lithuania, Labkovski began his artistic studies at a young age. He later attended the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris after graduating from the Vilnius Academy of Art. However, the start of World War II and the Nazi occupation of Lithuania halted his career.
Like many other Jewish people in the region, Labkovski was subjected to antisemitic persecution during the war and witnessed the atrocities of the Holocaust. The tragedy had a profound effect on his family, psyche, and physical being. He relocated to Israel after the war, where he continued his career. His paintings depict the suffering and resilience of the Jewish people during and after the Holocaust, capturing the agony, loss, and survival. Scenes from the ghetto, concentration camps, and the aftermath of the Holocaust are among his most well-known works.
A few weeks after our return to Boston, my sister and I couldn’t stop talking about our meaningful experience at the workshop and how it reshaped our understanding of Holocaust education. Seated comfortably in our childhood home in the heart of Cambridge, Massachusetts, we found ourselves deep in conversation, reflecting on our time abroad and the lessons that stayed with us.
Chloe, a dedicated high school sophomore, shared her thoughts with curiosity and thoughtfulness. As a history major with a keen interest in policy and anthropology, I found myself reconsidering how history is taught and internalized. When I asked my sister how she now felt about our education on the Holocaust growing up, she remained quiet, lost in thought.
She remained quiet, patting our family dog, but I could tell she already had an answer—perhaps from pure intuition, or maybe because I’ve known her all her life.
“It’s complicated,” she said at last. “I had always felt as if I had a good grasp on it, that is, until I was able to truly interact with these histories. It’s one thing to learn about something. It’s one thing to read about it, even to watch films and documentaries; but when you’re physically at a location or doing an activity connected to an atrocity like this, it’s a completely new experience.”
We both recalled our first visit to the Anne Frank House Museum during our last trip to Amsterdam in July 2022. I added, “Being in a stimulating environment where you are directly connected to a historical event is a lesson like no other.”
Chloe: “Exactly. When you’re physically connecting to something, like we did with David Labkovski’s artwork in Italy on board the riverboat, it really links you to another person through what they have left behind—in this case, Labkovski’s art.”
“History feels so far away, until an experience like this brings it right to your doorstep,” I said.
My sister and I both agreed that learning about the horrors of the Holocaust through this painter—while on a cruise—felt strangely disorienting.
“How would you describe where we were and our circumstances surrounding the workshop?” I asked, already forming my own answer.
Chloe: “I would say it’s ironic, in a way. If that’s the right word. To engage in and discuss something so devastating in the most privileged environment.”
“I completely agree,” I replied. “I think that’s the perfect way to describe the feeling of it. But I have been ruminating on it for a while, and I wonder how our reaction to that question or idea would have been if we were in a different setting.”
Chloe: “Yes, like when we were talking about school. I learned a great deal, but this was my first experience forming a deep connection to this, outside of visiting the Anne Frank House. I think we reacted more intensely because we were in a privileged setting, but that doesn’t take away from the workshop at all. The contrast between the content and the location sparked a strong reaction.”
“Do you think using art as a tool for learning would be beneficial in schools?”
Chloe: “Yes, it can be hard to focus in a school environment. The fact that I was able to truly engage and connect while in a vacation mindset is definitely a good sign that this method is effective.”
“Why do you think that is?” I asked, unsure of her response for the first time.
Chloe: “Because you are connecting to it. People are taking their perspectives and projecting them onto his artwork.”
“What drew you to the painting we chose? What changes did you make while composing your painting? I remember choosing it because of the colour; I recall so many of his works being drained of colour, but this one felt so vibrant and alive.”
Chloe: “I would agree, the colours definitely made it more lively. But honestly, I remember being drawn to it because there was no single focal point. There were multiple elements instead of just a portrait or a scene with one focus. The painting had two figures in the foreground, standing amidst mountainous regions. The watercolour hues of blue and green blended together, creating a serene yet complex atmosphere that drew me in.”
“That’s an interesting perspective. Speaking of perspectives, did any of the other participants surprise you toward the end of the workshop? Was there a specific story or person that moved you?”
Chloe: “Yes, actually. There was a woman who mentioned being reminded of her father. Without getting into much detail, she shared a really personal and touching story about a memory she had of him. I think that only further shows that this method of teaching history—creating a connection through art—works.”
“I couldn’t agree more. I remember that woman as well. Even though it wasn’t a story directly related to the Holocaust, she was moved by Labkovski’s paintings. I also recall hearing stories from women who had direct ancestral ties to the Holocaust or World War II in general. It’s incredibly moving to have the chance to connect with such raw, versatile art. As time goes on, generations grow further disconnected from this history, and connecting to it in an emotional way ensures it lives on.”
While Labkovski may not be as widely known as some other Holocaust artists, his work remains a powerful testament to the human capacity for both cruelty and resilience. His paintings continue to serve as important historical and artistic documents, reminding us of the need to remember and learn from the tragedies of the past.
This experience completely altered my understanding of the pursuit of education. What I now see is a vital and necessary generational “call to action.” Without personal connections and attachments to these emotive histories, there is a great risk of mindlessly forgetting and overlooking the past. There is undoubtedly a personal responsibility to educate oneself; we cannot wait for the opportunity to be educated. Without acknowledgement and remembrance, we risk the possibility of history repeating itself.
Italy was an exciting trip for my family. It was the perfect way to end the summer, and as a history major, I was eager to absorb a new wealth of culture.
My family of four was excited to venture east and enjoy a thrilling trip abroad. Being Massachusetts natives, our exposure to Italian culture had been limited to Boston’s infamous North End and old recipes from our Italian family friends, who seemed to perpetually endorse and admire their ancestral stronghold. My parents, my sister, and I grew increasingly more excited as the weeks progressed toward our departure date.
Unexpectedly, the greatest historical lesson of our trip came not from ancient ruins but from a small, intimate workshop. Midway through the week of travel, we boarded a boutique cruise in Venice, which turned out to be the pinnacle of our voyage. We soon learned that Leora Raikin, founder of the David Labkovski Project—a nonprofit teaching communities about the Holocaust through the artwork of survivor David Labkovski—was hosting an interactive art workshop on board, and my sister and I promptly signed up.
When we arrived at the workshop, the space was filled with women of all ages—from my teenage sister to retirees who had been travelling Europe for months. We each took a spot in the sunroom of the ship, a venue with windows on every wall, and collectively directed our attention to the front of the room. Leora began with an introduction to David Labkovski’s work, explaining his background, history, and her familial connection to him. We were then instructed to choose one of Labkovski’s artworks that resonated with us and to paint in a way that reflected our interpretation.
Labkovski’s art is a masterful pursuit of emotion. Each work holds a story, offering a glimpse into the past and into the artist’s own memory. Throughout his life, Labkovski documented his experiences through transformative art. Born in 1906, the Lithuanian–Jewish artist gained recognition with his poignant paintings that captured the Holocaust and its effects on the Jewish people. The turbulent events of the 20th century left a lasting impression on Labkovski, whose artwork serves as a moving testament to the horrors he witnessed while imprisoned. Born in Vilnius, Lithuania, Labkovski began his artistic studies at a young age. He later attended the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris after graduating from the Vilnius Academy of Art. However, the start of World War II and the Nazi occupation of Lithuania halted his career.
Like many other Jewish people in the region, Labkovski was subjected to antisemitic persecution during the war and witnessed the atrocities of the Holocaust. The tragedy had a profound effect on his family, psyche, and physical being. He relocated to Israel after the war, where he continued his career. His paintings depict the suffering and resilience of the Jewish people during and after the Holocaust, capturing the agony, loss, and survival. Scenes from the ghetto, concentration camps, and the aftermath of the Holocaust are among his most well-known works.
A few weeks after our return to Boston, my sister and I couldn’t stop talking about our meaningful experience at the workshop and how it reshaped our understanding of Holocaust education. Seated comfortably in our childhood home in the heart of Cambridge, Massachusetts, we found ourselves deep in conversation, reflecting on our time abroad and the lessons that stayed with us.
Chloe, a dedicated high school sophomore, shared her thoughts with curiosity and thoughtfulness. As a history major with a keen interest in policy and anthropology, I found myself reconsidering how history is taught and internalized. When I asked my sister how she now felt about our education on the Holocaust growing up, she remained quiet, lost in thought.
She remained quiet, patting our family dog, but I could tell she already had an answer—perhaps from pure intuition, or maybe because I’ve known her all her life.
“It’s complicated,” she said at last. “I had always felt as if I had a good grasp on it, that is, until I was able to truly interact with these histories. It’s one thing to learn about something. It’s one thing to read about it, even to watch films and documentaries; but when you’re physically at a location or doing an activity connected to an atrocity like this, it’s a completely new experience.”
We both recalled our first visit to the Anne Frank House Museum during our last trip to Amsterdam in July 2022. I added, “Being in a stimulating environment where you are directly connected to a historical event is a lesson like no other.”
Chloe: “Exactly. When you’re physically connecting to something, like we did with David Labkovski’s artwork in Italy on board the riverboat, it really links you to another person through what they have left behind—in this case, Labkovski’s art.”
“History feels so far away, until an experience like this brings it right to your doorstep,” I said.
My sister and I both agreed that learning about the horrors of the Holocaust through this painter—while on a cruise—felt strangely disorienting.
“How would you describe where we were and our circumstances surrounding the workshop?” I asked, already forming my own answer.
Chloe: “I would say it’s ironic, in a way. If that’s the right word. To engage in and discuss something so devastating in the most privileged environment.”
“I completely agree,” I replied. “I think that’s the perfect way to describe the feeling of it. But I have been ruminating on it for a while, and I wonder how our reaction to that question or idea would have been if we were in a different setting.”
Chloe: “Yes, like when we were talking about school. I learned a great deal, but this was my first experience forming a deep connection to this, outside of visiting the Anne Frank House. I think we reacted more intensely because we were in a privileged setting, but that doesn’t take away from the workshop at all. The contrast between the content and the location sparked a strong reaction.”
“Do you think using art as a tool for learning would be beneficial in schools?”
Chloe: “Yes, it can be hard to focus in a school environment. The fact that I was able to truly engage and connect while in a vacation mindset is definitely a good sign that this method is effective.”
“Why do you think that is?” I asked, unsure of her response for the first time.
Chloe: “Because you are connecting to it. People are taking their perspectives and projecting them onto his artwork.”
“What drew you to the painting we chose? What changes did you make while composing your painting? I remember choosing it because of the colour; I recall so many of his works being drained of colour, but this one felt so vibrant and alive.”
Chloe: “I would agree, the colours definitely made it more lively. But honestly, I remember being drawn to it because there was no single focal point. There were multiple elements instead of just a portrait or a scene with one focus. The painting had two figures in the foreground, standing amidst mountainous regions. The watercolour hues of blue and green blended together, creating a serene yet complex atmosphere that drew me in.”
“That’s an interesting perspective. Speaking of perspectives, did any of the other participants surprise you toward the end of the workshop? Was there a specific story or person that moved you?”
Chloe: “Yes, actually. There was a woman who mentioned being reminded of her father. Without getting into much detail, she shared a really personal and touching story about a memory she had of him. I think that only further shows that this method of teaching history—creating a connection through art—works.”
“I couldn’t agree more. I remember that woman as well. Even though it wasn’t a story directly related to the Holocaust, she was moved by Labkovski’s paintings. I also recall hearing stories from women who had direct ancestral ties to the Holocaust or World War II in general. It’s incredibly moving to have the chance to connect with such raw, versatile art. As time goes on, generations grow further disconnected from this history, and connecting to it in an emotional way ensures it lives on.”
While Labkovski may not be as widely known as some other Holocaust artists, his work remains a powerful testament to the human capacity for both cruelty and resilience. His paintings continue to serve as important historical and artistic documents, reminding us of the need to remember and learn from the tragedies of the past.
This experience completely altered my understanding of the pursuit of education. What I now see is a vital and necessary generational “call to action.” Without personal connections and attachments to these emotive histories, there is a great risk of mindlessly forgetting and overlooking the past. There is undoubtedly a personal responsibility to educate oneself; we cannot wait for the opportunity to be educated. Without acknowledgement and remembrance, we risk the possibility of history repeating itself.