Tales of Sidney Gerstein: A Young Man’s Quest for Meaning In the Aftermath of the Holocaust

By Joseph Lerner

As a Jewish boy growing up in Plymouth, Pennsylvania, Sidney Gerstein is constantly chided about his name and bullied by anti-Semantics. Finally, he is given a chance to start over when his family moves to Depot, New Jersey. But with little experience outside Plymouth, Sidney’s path to adulthood becomes more challenging than he imagined.

Amid tumultuous 1960s America, Sidney dreams of attending college to earn a doctorate degree. But also with maturity comes a desire to learn more about life and his ethnic heritage in a post-Holocaust world. When Sidney embarks on a quest for answers, his path eventually crosses with Mort Poplowsky, a death camp survivor who denies his Jewish identity. As Mort begins revealing his tragic past to Sidney and others, they must work together in an attempt to not only understand his compelling story, but also change his views toward American society.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Dec 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483442891

Book preview

TALES OF

SIDNEY GERSTEIN

A Young Man’s Quest for Meaning in

the Aftermath of the Holocaust

JOSEPH LERNER

Copyright © 2015 Joseph Lerner.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-4288-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-4289-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015920192

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 12/13/2015

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Life in Plymouth

Going to School in Plymouth

The Bus Ride to New Jersey

Questions about God

The Holocaust

Cousins Phil and Rosalie

Poplowski

A New Environment

Before Mort’s Untimely Death

Niccolo and His Suicide

To honor the memories of Helen Gromer Ouslander and Marcy Halle Ouslander, wonderful human beings that were taken from this life.

Miss Toshinki Sasaki asked Father Kleinsorge bluntly, If your God is so good and kind, how can He let people suffer like this? [referring to the bombs dropped on Japan that killed over one hundred thousand innocent people]

My child, Father Kleinsorge responded saying, Man is not now in the condition God intended. He has fallen from grace through sin.

                                    Red Cross Hospital

                                    Hiroshima, Japan

                                    September 9, 1945

—John Hersey’s Hiroshima

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful to Ms. Arlene Reed for all the time she contributed to help with the editing of this manuscript. Ms. Linda Lerner contributed her valuable time to correct the manuscript, and I appreciate all she has done to make the manuscript read more smoothly. Finally, I am happy to acknowledge the work of Ms. Tara Minor, who contributed many fine ideas to the work in order to make the manuscript read well. Thank all of you for your efforts.

LIFE IN PLYMOUTH

The coal truck was filled with pea-sized coal, and the load was covered with a blue powder that I could not make out. Was the powder needed to keep the load dry? The truck driver used a shovel to keep the coal moving down the chute and into our coal bin. The chute was made of shiny steel, and the movement of the pea-size kernels racing down the incline to the cellar sounded like a rapidly flowing stream, with an occasional kernel jumping over the side of the chute. The window through which the coal passed had hinges and three small glass panes that were translucent and smoky with cracks. I stood on the sidewalk, watching the process. The coal entered the bin about six feet above the concrete cellar floor. When the load was complete, the bin was filled almost to the level of the small window. A screw mechanism on the cellar floor was visible when the bin was empty. The mechanism was essentially a lead pipe with a screw inside of it. The pipe lay on top of the floor and was bolted to it to prevent its movement. It moved coal from the bin to the bottom of the furnace. The screw mechanism was turned on and off by an electric motor, which was controlled by a thermostat. When heat was needed, coal was fed into the furnace, and the heat produced boiling water in pipes that were coiled around the firebox. The steam that was produced circulated to the radiators throughout the building. As the steam condensed back into water, it returned to a reservoir that was coiled inside of the furnace, which absorbed heat from the burning coal.

When I was alone, many times I experimented with the thermostat, moving it up to high temperatures and watching the firebox become red hot through a small glass window. Inside the furnace, the steam—now white-hot vapor—would pound against the sides of the furnace’s fire walls. The pipes that exited the furnace were extremely hot and would cause severe burns if touched. The hot vapor that returned to the furnace now condensed to very hot water before it entered the coils around the furnace, waiting to be reheated.

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The sky over Main Street above our small grocery store looked ominous, threatening, as though layers of thick gray clouds would soon be upon our section of town. Late fall was an unusual time for a thunderstorm to happen in our small coal-mining town, but they did pass through, driven by high winds that formed vortices, blowing debris and fine dust particles. This forced the few individuals near the front of our grocery store to cover their faces with handkerchiefs. Thunder rumbled west of the top of Larksville Mountain, and an occasional streak of blue-white lightning flashed, followed at times by several bolts striking simultaneously. I was aware of the shocks being preceded by a strange cracking noise that left our store windows vibrating in concert, which made me take cover out of fear. The air surrounding the store and the family home was cold enough to keep the furnace running.

The storm approached, and the cold air mixed with the warm, as though it were summer. This remnant of a summer breeze suddenly brought darkness and sheets of rain that quickly accumulated water, which flowed into the drains. I noticed puddles quickly turned into ponds, filling the street to a depth of several feet, making it impossible for vehicles to pass. Cars, buses, and trucks came to a halt in the pooling water and torrents; rocks and soil filled the street, making it impossible to pass through the accumulating debris. People left their homes screaming.

Our store basement, where goods were stored, was inundated with foul-smelling water, and Grandfather, Dad, and I moved boxed goods, crates, and equipment quickly upstairs. The basement held crates filled with cantaloupes; Papa said you could tell if they were ripe if you pressed the end of the fruit and it gave in. This fruit was worth keeping. Papa managed to drag a full crate and set it on the conveyor. Dim yellow lights were suspended from electric cords that hung from the ceiling, swaying in the swift breeze that entered at the top of the staircase. The opening was fitted with a trapdoor. The staircase was made of rotten boards that were split from age. No light was hung over the stairs, making it difficult to ascend them with heavy loads of fruit and vegetables. Papa got help from a student worker, and they strained up the staircase. Soon, as they struggled, water began to fill the basement, and they had to hold their heads high as the dirty water and debris gushed in.

Dad was busy working outside. I helped to get the canned goods upstairs. They were in boxes, some of which were large. Some contained cans filled with plums or whole tomatoes; there were also some small cans filled with tomato paste. I struggled to get the boxes up to the landing, and our assistant stacked them in rows between the aisles. My grandmother, whom I called Bubby, was a large woman but not a tall one. She managed to carry the cash register out the back of the store through a foot of water that was flowing in through the front door. She dragged the register through the kitchen, pulling forcefully with some difficulty because of its weight.

My girlfriend had gone to visit some of her girlfriends for a week in Atlantic City and fortunately missed the entire catastrophe. Bubby hauled the cash register up the stairs to a safe place where there was no water. She desperately wanted to protect the contents.

Water, water everywhere! I looked north out the large store window, where there were many cars backed up in a long line. It was then I first noticed all of the water that was accumulating in the roadway and in the houses. A car came south on Main Street, and I saw that the level of water was clearly up to the headlights and the door handles of the vehicle. The depth was in excess of several feet, deep enough to cause the car to grind to a halt, with scalding-hot water streaming through the sides of the hood and around the shut windows. The frightened passengers sat frozen in the dark, since the electric power lines had been cut when the rushing water knocked over utility poles and shorted out transformers. Soon the headlights of the cars that were in a line facing south began to dim as their batteries lost charge. There were children in the backseats of the old cars, and they looked at the mysterious surroundings of gray outlines and shadows as the rain continued to come down in sheets.

Some boys came along and tried to open the car doors, but the water pressure was too high to permit getting into the windows; likewise, they were impossible to break, lower, or push in. Several large coal miners waded through the rushing water and desperately tried to push the first car in line out of the water to higher ground. They struggled quite diligently, but it was impossible, since the flow of water down the mountain held the car against the underlying pavement. Several rats appeared, bobbing their tiny heads above the water, and the children stretched against the car windows, trying to see them. Too soon, the rats were chased out of sight by two large black cats that raced after them, their heads barely visible above the racing torrents. Suddenly two bright lights and smaller red lights appeared in the distance, coming from the north.

The outline of the front of a large vehicle emerged through the sheets of rain. I noticed that a bus now became visible through the darkness. The front of it had a sign that was barely visible, and it was lit by small bulbs. It read Washington above its front window. I knew Route 11 was the main highway south, with the roadway going through many towns and cities along the way, such as Hazelton, Reading, and even cities like Philadelphia, Dover, and Baltimore, with Washington as the final destination.

The bus driver had inadvertently driven into deep water, almost to the front window, where I could see him sitting behind the wheel. He desperately turned that wheel one way and then the other, apparently searching for a spot on the roadway that would allow him to move the bus out of the rut it was in. In the meantime, he raced the engine and double-clutched the motor, but to no avail. The bus would not budge, since it was stuck in deep water on the roadway. The driver then shouted—and I could hear him quite plainly from across the street in the store—for the occupants to take their seats and be calm. The level of anxiety among the passengers was high, and some of them looked for ways to break the windows and escape from the bus, while others sat tearfully rubbing their hands together, praying, and reaching for their rosaries. I could see some individuals handling the strings of beads, their lips repeatedly mouthing Hail Marys. I could see this through the glass of the tinted windows; it wasn’t a familiar sight, since I was a Jew. I then heard screaming as water began to leak into the bus through the folding front door.

In the midst of the downpour, a group of nearby neighbors began to help both young and old passengers by carrying them through the rising water after breaking down the door and windows of the bus. After many hours, the rain subsided and the flood became less intense and violent. The police, EMTs, and firefighters began working at the scene, helping survivors and removing debris. During the night, all of the individuals that hospitals in Wilkes-Barre could hold notified their nearest relatives, who came to the area of the storm to pick up strangers, kinfolk, and friends.

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The next day, the sky was perfectly clear and the water filling the street and the dwellings had, for the most part, subsided. The bus, still stuck in mud and covered with rocks and debris, had to be towed to higher ground near the lower end of Main Street, where it was pulled with heavy ropes onto a wide-bed truck and returned to the repair shop adjacent to the bus terminal in Wilkes-Barre, six miles north of our grocery store in Plymouth. Many customers that had been stranded, as well as car and bus passengers, were anxious to get into our store for bread and milk, which my folks distributed to them without charge.

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It was quiet after the storm, and the Susquehanna River glimmered in the bright sunlight; buses were dispatched and crossed the bridges over the river and took the formerly isolated individuals to their destinations. Their cars and trucks had to be towed to dry vacant lots near our store. I had grown up above the family grocery store, which was in a small house shared with my parents, sister, and grandparents. The dwelling was located on Main Street, across from streets that ran perpendicular to Main; they were very steep, since they ascended the base of Larksville Mountain, where many small homes were to be found jammed together on narrow lanes that accommodated only a single line of traffic. All of the houses on the hill and on Main Street were uniformly painted white; they all had wooden clapboards and were adorned with red, white, and yellow flowers during spring and summer. The yards were filled with tomato plants held up by sticks, as well as peppers, squash, and cucumbers during warm weather.

Near the top of Larksville Mountain, there was an area of strip mines that yielded slate and coal, which led to a great deal of erosion that caused the streets and yards to be filled with orange-colored rocks indicating an abundance of iron in the earth. Children’s swing sets had been toppled, and some old cars had been overturned along the streets. Behind our house were chicken coops filled with hens; the males were sacrificed, their meat apparently not being usable. The hens laid eggs in an area of pens enclosed with chicken wire. The chickens were able to enter and exit the chicken house, which had two-by-four boards arranged horizontally that allowed them to climb to the top and crow and cackle.

My friends and I played in the henhouse, despite it being loaded with droppings that accumulated for months without being cleared out. After a time, there were piles of dander, manure, and feathers in the henhouse. When I was about five years old, my mother took me shopping in Nanticoke one day, and we happened to pass a pet store where there were chicks in the window. They were black, white, and calico, and I quickly became obsessed and wouldn’t budge from the storefront. My mother recognized that I had to have one of them, so we went into the store and left with a shoe box filled with four little chicks. When we arrived home, I kept them in the kitchen by the warm stove. After a time, they grew large and had to be put out in the yard with the other chickens. I had not anticipated that my grandfather would have plans for them. Before Christmas, he let the chickens run loose in the yard while he sharpened a knife. He then grabbed one of my birds and held it tightly; he then cut its head off.

At that point, I was completely outraged and totally saddened at seeing my chickens slaughtered; their heads were cut off in front of me by Papa, whom I loved so dearly. I stood in the yard watching my birds running around without their heads, blood pouring from their headless bodies into the fresh snow. Papa took me in his arms and held me while he apologized for his actions, though he explained that chickens were slaughtered for food at this holiday time. He took each bird by the legs and soaked it in scalding hot water, which he had in several buckets, and he then quickly pulled its feathers out before holding it over a wood fire that he had made to singe the bristles off. Without saying a word, Papa took the carcasses into the store in pails and prepared them with my father by cutting them into portions that were put in the freezer for later sale. I continued to be in a state of shock, having seen my poor chickens killed. They were my true friends, and I had played with them every day in the yard. Grandfather only considered them to be items of food that would be displayed in the cold box in the store for Christmas.

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In the back of the yard, there was a smokehouse where kielbasa was set on long-handled brooms and tied into rings and smoked. It consisted of meat highly seasoned with garlic and was a Polish treat. I used to play hide-and-seek in the smokehouse with my friends. The insides of the smokehouse were charcoal black from usage.

Next to the smokehouse was a small building that my family rented out to a former coal miner who had black lung; we could hear him coughing as he sat on a folding chair outside of his tiny dwelling, which formerly had been a greenhouse. He raised spearmint along the fence of our property, harvested the mint, hung the plants up to dry, ground the mint, and put it in a tin. He would set the mint alight and hold the tin close to his nose, and then he would inhale the smoke as it burned. This made him cough up phlegm, which he then spit next to the chair. My mother yelled at me to keep away from him when he did this and not to get near where he spit on the ground. My dad said that the man, whose name was Andrzej, had TB, meaning tuberculosis.

Behind the yard was a garage with three bays: one for Grandfather’s green