I am descended from two Esthers.
My paternal great-grandmother, Esther, was born in Russia. After being forced out of her homeland due to pogroms, she found herself in what is now Belarus. She later married Elias and they moved to Budapest, where it was safe for them, even during World War I. She raised her four children, including my grandfather, Izso. Esther lived with him and his wife, Shari, after becoming widowed.
During the Nazi occupation of Hungary, Izso died. Esther, Shari, her children, and other family members were taken to a ghetto, a brick factory outside of Budapest. They were left outdoors without food or protection from the elements and were eventually loaded into cattle cars and taken to Auschwitz. My father was separated from the women, who clung together to help Esther walk—her legs swollen from the days on the train.
The women were immediately taken to the gas chamber.
On the first day of my father’s internment, he learned that the women were slaughtered. After the war, my father found out his brother Rudy had been killed. My father visited the synagogue in Újpest years later. His entire family was on the memorial.
I look a lot like Esther, I share her curly dark hair, the same nose, the same chin.
My maternal grandmother, Esther, was born into an Orthodox family in what is now Slovakia. Her father Morris had 13 children.
Esther’s husband, Jakob, was from Ukraine and in the Czech military. After World War II started, he moved his family, which included three children, to Bratislava. But in doing so, he "went AWOL," and fearing he'd be arrested as a deserter, they moved to Budapest. The family lived there for a few years before the Nazi regime arrived in Hungary. At that point, Jakob told his family he had to leave, and paid the Swiss to protect the building where his family was hiding. Grandma Esther and my mother were captured in Budapest while out getting food. My grandmother stood up to the Nazi soldiers and told them she had two more children at home, and she wished to get them so they could all go together. They went back to their building and weren’t forced to leave just yet.
After some time, they were captured and taken to a ghetto. They were part of Eichmann’s last march, and while many people were taking valuables, hoping they could buy freedom, Esther smuggled food within their clothes and made the children carry heavy blankets, items that would keep them alive on the march.
My grandmother kept her children’s spirits up by singing to them, praying with them, encouraging them to stick together and to be brave. While others died, they marched on, ending up in a satellite camp near Mauthausen. By the time they arrived, the three children were all sick, but Grandma Esther managed to convince the commandant to allow them to live with her. She worked in the kitchen, cooking for the German soldiers, and smuggled crusts of bread and raw potato peels back to her children. They survived together and were sent to a displaced persons camp in northern Germany.
My parents met during this time; my dad was in a displaced persons camp in Bavaria and my mom worked for the American military as an interpreter. Though they were married without rings, an American officer bought my mom a dress (she later traded it for a tablecloth—she was practical).
Once they immigrated to the U.S., arriving in NYC, they lived together in a studio apartment.
My Grandma Esther lost all of her siblings that remained in Czechoslovakia except one brother and one half sister. She cared for her brother, who lost his wife and children in the camps. Her half-sister ended up in Sweden after the war. My grandma helped bring her to the U.S. so they could be together.
Esther was a devout Jew. She prayed every day, many times a day. She had incredible posture. She didn’t suffer any fools. She gave tzedakah, she planted trees in Israel, she visited Israel and got to pray at the Wailing Wall. She lived until 69, the age I am now.
It was her who taught me how to cook, how to grow vegetables, how to sew by hand, how to embroider, and how to make jewellery. I could always count on her, I could always go to her with my troubles.
Looking back on her life, largely spent in exile, I can’t help but see the parallels between her and Queen Esther. Like Queen Esther, she was a prisoner. Like Queen Esther, she risked her life by standing up for what she believed in. Her bravery inspires me.
I am descended from two Esthers.
My paternal great-grandmother, Esther, was born in Russia. After being forced out of her homeland due to pogroms, she found herself in what is now Belarus. She later married Elias and they moved to Budapest, where it was safe for them, even during World War I. She raised her four children, including my grandfather, Izso. Esther lived with him and his wife, Shari, after becoming widowed.
During the Nazi occupation of Hungary, Izso died. Esther, Shari, her children, and other family members were taken to a ghetto, a brick factory outside of Budapest. They were left outdoors without food or protection from the elements and were eventually loaded into cattle cars and taken to Auschwitz. My father was separated from the women, who clung together to help Esther walk—her legs swollen from the days on the train.
The women were immediately taken to the gas chamber.
On the first day of my father’s internment, he learned that the women were slaughtered. After the war, my father found out his brother Rudy had been killed. My father visited the synagogue in Újpest years later. His entire family was on the memorial.
I look a lot like Esther, I share her curly dark hair, the same nose, the same chin.
My maternal grandmother, Esther, was born into an Orthodox family in what is now Slovakia. Her father Morris had 13 children.
Esther’s husband, Jakob, was from Ukraine and in the Czech military. After World War II started, he moved his family, which included three children, to Bratislava. But in doing so, he "went AWOL," and fearing he'd be arrested as a deserter, they moved to Budapest. The family lived there for a few years before the Nazi regime arrived in Hungary. At that point, Jakob told his family he had to leave, and paid the Swiss to protect the building where his family was hiding. Grandma Esther and my mother were captured in Budapest while out getting food. My grandmother stood up to the Nazi soldiers and told them she had two more children at home, and she wished to get them so they could all go together. They went back to their building and weren’t forced to leave just yet.
After some time, they were captured and taken to a ghetto. They were part of Eichmann’s last march, and while many people were taking valuables, hoping they could buy freedom, Esther smuggled food within their clothes and made the children carry heavy blankets, items that would keep them alive on the march.
My grandmother kept her children’s spirits up by singing to them, praying with them, encouraging them to stick together and to be brave. While others died, they marched on, ending up in a satellite camp near Mauthausen. By the time they arrived, the three children were all sick, but Grandma Esther managed to convince the commandant to allow them to live with her. She worked in the kitchen, cooking for the German soldiers, and smuggled crusts of bread and raw potato peels back to her children. They survived together and were sent to a displaced persons camp in northern Germany.
My parents met during this time; my dad was in a displaced persons camp in Bavaria and my mom worked for the American military as an interpreter. Though they were married without rings, an American officer bought my mom a dress (she later traded it for a tablecloth—she was practical).
Once they immigrated to the U.S., arriving in NYC, they lived together in a studio apartment.
My Grandma Esther lost all of her siblings that remained in Czechoslovakia except one brother and one half sister. She cared for her brother, who lost his wife and children in the camps. Her half-sister ended up in Sweden after the war. My grandma helped bring her to the U.S. so they could be together.
Esther was a devout Jew. She prayed every day, many times a day. She had incredible posture. She didn’t suffer any fools. She gave tzedakah, she planted trees in Israel, she visited Israel and got to pray at the Wailing Wall. She lived until 69, the age I am now.
It was her who taught me how to cook, how to grow vegetables, how to sew by hand, how to embroider, and how to make jewellery. I could always count on her, I could always go to her with my troubles.
Looking back on her life, largely spent in exile, I can’t help but see the parallels between her and Queen Esther. Like Queen Esther, she was a prisoner. Like Queen Esther, she risked her life by standing up for what she believed in. Her bravery inspires me.