I lived most of my life ignorant of the fact that some of my relatives died in the Holocaust. Approximately 15 years ago, we asked my uncle (my father’s brother) to tell us about the family. He talked descriptively about the life they led as children of immigrants growing up in a Jewish neighborhood in the Bronx, New York.

He told us in a very vivid manner about their childhood, playing games in the street with children of Jewish and Italian immigrants; about their home full of children; their grandfather who lived with them and taught them Torah and an uncle, who only recently had arrived from Europe; the Jewish holidays in a religious environment; attending synagogue on festivals, et cetera. In short, the life of a large, warm, and united Jewish family.

Afterwards, he began telling us about his father’s (my grandfather) family. His mother, sister, and brothers, with their families – all of whom had remained in Galicia – perished in the Holocaust.

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