LifeStory Writing

Before I met V., some of her story was relayed to me – the remarkable story of a holocaust survivor. When I met her in the dining room of our retirement center, I was absorbed in the details of horror and triumph. "Have you written it?"

No, but my family has asked me to do it, she said. I don't know how or where to begin. Sometimes I ask myself, why did I survive? Feelings of guilt wash over me when I know so many didn't.

V. wears a small ring on her right hand. Sometimes it is hidden under a larger ring. When I asked about it, she told me: Many were trying to reach the unoccupied zone in France, but we were caught and loaded on a prison train. I carried on a conversation with a guard as he locked the doors, but he left a door near me unlocked. When he fell asleep I jumped from the train. I told my friends what I was going to do, but they didn't follow. I was hurt, but I dragged myself to a farm house. The farmer gave me a bed of straw in the barn and the next morning when I could hardly move he took me to a doctor. The police station was next door! The doctor put me in a hospital in Orleans. The girl in the bed next to me gave me the ring to remember her and as a token of good luck as I escaped from there. I've worn it for 57 years.

An inner urging said, "Invite V. to your home to discuss Lifestory writing."

She came, and our relationship around her arduous and painful story was born. I asked questions about her experience. At numerous points in our conversation, I tried to encourage her writing. "That's a sentence to use..., that's a thought to save..., that's a paragraph..., begin the way you have told it to me."

She began with her Jewishness. It is just a few years that I have been able to say and write with ease, 'I was born a Jew'. I had a beautiful life as a child, wonderful parents and grandparents who loved me. I was proud of being Jewish. I didn't know any other way. Our family went to synagogue, Sunday school and Hebrew school. I attended a one-room Jewish grade school in Germany until I was 10. Then I attended a private girls school. I was the only Jewish girl in my class. My friends were either Protestant or Catholic. I took part in all the activities at Christmas – sang the Christmas songs in the pageant. I was sort of jealous that I couldn't go into the church and experience all that beautiful music. I attended catechism in Catholic homes and by osmosis. I got some of their religion. I didn't want to deny nor lie about my background. When we were asked at school to answer questions about religion, I wrote, "Jewish". My uncle told me that might get me in trouble the rest of my life. But my professor, a Protestant, said "I am proud of you. Let me shake your hand." That made me feel good. I was always a bit of a fighter.

Her story continued: Later when I was in Holland I went to a Dutch Reformed church with people who would later become my in-laws in my second marriage. The church was a definite part of the "underground", helping to protect the Jews. After the war, as a gradual process I decided I wanted to be a Christian. My children and I were baptized on the same day in a Presbyterian church in Willmette, IL in 1947.

Before I joined a church in Chicago I told the minister my life story and that if I ever heard derogatory remarks about Jews, 'I will not be coming back.' I belong to a church in my community. I feel love and acceptance.

V's experience in a "Christian" community is not without conflict. Some say, "She's aggressive." My defense of her may be silence or it may be a question, "Who could have survived without a great deal of strength?"

I ask myself this question, "Why are we caught up with the word aggression while we ignore our own flaws of being judgmental, critical, unloving, fearful or jealous?"

At one point, a friend of mine joined in the judgment of V. I knew her attitude placed a barrier in our friendship. I didn't want that to happen. I walked past her home several times. The third time I rang the bell. I told her how deeply I felt about the judgment she had made of my friend V. We had a reconciling moment.

V. writes in a faded notebook, where she's scratched out sentences, and doubled over pages. At Thanksgiving she sent me a note, which gave me pause for gratitude of my own. Thanks for getting me started and encouraging me to keep on, she wrote.

V. is now a valued member of our retirement community Lifestory writing class which has developed into a small sharing group, a "One Anothering" group (re: Dick Meyer's books). Members of the class, including V. thanks to the remarkable connection we've made, will join me and share their stories when I lead a church seminar on writing one's LifeStory.

How did this connection come about? A listening ear, an openness to share a story and a caring spirit. These are three things, no matter what our journey, that will give more than we dream possible.

As I close I share a portion of her chapter, "War Comes to the Netherlands".

Adaline writes from Northbrook Il where she leads journal workships, teaches creative writing and LifeStory writing. She also does grief workshops, writes stories for children and has volunteered in Interginerational Partnership.