This article is from the source 'nytimes' and was first published or seen on . The next check for changes will be

You can find the current article at its original source at https://www.nytimes.com/2023/06/03/opinion/postcard-holocaust.html

The article has changed 6 times. There is an RSS feed of changes available.

Version 4 Version 5
What It Means to Be a Witness Three Generations Later What It Means to Be a Witness Three Generations Later
(about 3 hours later)
In 2021, I received an extraordinary message on Twitter.In 2021, I received an extraordinary message on Twitter.
In 1942, the Gestapo, together with French police, were in pursuit of Lotte Wildman, my grandfather’s niece, the message explained. As the police closed in, Lotte was sheltered by a woman named Lucienne Oliviéri, the message writer’s aunt.In 1942, the Gestapo, together with French police, were in pursuit of Lotte Wildman, my grandfather’s niece, the message explained. As the police closed in, Lotte was sheltered by a woman named Lucienne Oliviéri, the message writer’s aunt.
During the war, he said, Ms. Oliviéri protected a group of Jewish women in Southeastern France, helping some cross the border into Switzerland. The author wondered: Could I help Ms. Oliviéri, by then nearly 104 years old, be recognized by Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust memorial museum, as a righteous person? I had written a nonfiction book a few years earlier about my search for my grandfather’s girlfriend, whom he left behind when he fled Nazi-occupied Austria. Still, I did not know how I might help. I had no eyewitness testimony of this story.During the war, he said, Ms. Oliviéri protected a group of Jewish women in Southeastern France, helping some cross the border into Switzerland. The author wondered: Could I help Ms. Oliviéri, by then nearly 104 years old, be recognized by Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust memorial museum, as a righteous person? I had written a nonfiction book a few years earlier about my search for my grandfather’s girlfriend, whom he left behind when he fled Nazi-occupied Austria. Still, I did not know how I might help. I had no eyewitness testimony of this story.
I thought of this note, and of Lotte, when I read “The Postcard,” by Anne Berest, a lightly fictionalized account of Ms. Berest’s investigation into her own family’s Holocaust history. In France the book was wildly popular, a finalist for the prestigious Prix Goncourt.I thought of this note, and of Lotte, when I read “The Postcard,” by Anne Berest, a lightly fictionalized account of Ms. Berest’s investigation into her own family’s Holocaust history. In France the book was wildly popular, a finalist for the prestigious Prix Goncourt.
The central narrative of “The Postcard” is true: Ms. Berest’s mother received a curious postcard in 2003 bearing only the names Ephraïm, Emma, Noémie and Jacques — her mother’s maternal grandparents, her aunt and her uncle, all murdered in Auschwitz. A decade later, Ms. Berest and her mother set out to find out not only who wrote the postcard and why, but also to understand who Ephraïm, Emma, Noémie and Jacques were — their lives, their hopes, the decisions they made as the walls closed in.The central narrative of “The Postcard” is true: Ms. Berest’s mother received a curious postcard in 2003 bearing only the names Ephraïm, Emma, Noémie and Jacques — her mother’s maternal grandparents, her aunt and her uncle, all murdered in Auschwitz. A decade later, Ms. Berest and her mother set out to find out not only who wrote the postcard and why, but also to understand who Ephraïm, Emma, Noémie and Jacques were — their lives, their hopes, the decisions they made as the walls closed in.
“During the Holocaust, millions of people were killed,” Ms. Berest told me recently. “But not only people were killed, also all the books they had to write. All the paintings they had to paint. All the music they had to compose,” she paused. “I think that is why we, the children and grandchildren of the survivors, are obsessed with working and writing books.”
I too have long been haunted by the breadth of the loss of human life, of dignity, of property and also of potential. The story Ms. Berest tells in “The Postcard” is an encapsulation of the effort of the third generation — of which I am also a part — to insist that the reader engage with the war at a granular level, murdered individual by murdered individual. Ms. Berest began her project as she was expecting her first daughter, conscious that the next generation will not know survivors the way we did.