Hidden from the Sun: Memoir of a Hidden Child

By Jenny Kalsner

Jenny Kalsner tells her story with the voice of a young child
coupled with the reflections of an adult. Her memoire is clearly
distinct from that of Ann Frank, in that she was only six when
entering hiding. Jenny's limitations in hiding from the Nazis were
greater than Anne's, but they helped her survive. This special story,
told in powerful language, explores the stages of renewed self
confidence and maturation that led Jenny to a life of fulfillment
and satisfaction. Her early experiences are retold with artistic
sensitivity and wisdom.



"Poetically written, with emotion on every page, the
reader is taken from laughter to tears . . . a remarkable
bookit should be required reading."
Ellen Belitsky, author of "Perchance to Feast"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483601335

Jenny Kalsner

While living in Ottawa, Canada, Jenny Kalsner received a B.A. degree in English Literature. She contributed articles to Ottawa Review, Canadian Flight Magazine and the Canadian Medical Association Journal. Moving to New York in l986, she worked as a psychotherapist after obtaining a Masters degree in Clinical Social Work. She lives in Rockland County, N.Y. with her husband and their two cats, and enjoys time spent with her now expanded family of three children and eight grandchildren.

Book preview

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Preface

PART ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

PART TWO

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Epilogue

45674.jpg

To my husband Stanley

who has supported this endeavor

from beginning to end;

my three lovely daughters,

Lydia, Pamela and Louisa,

and my eight grandchildren,

Noah, Olivia, Tess, Dylan,

Jonah, Max, Chloe and Elliot.

You are all very special.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to thank my fellow writers from Salon Three for editorial comment as this work progressed, as well as my friends from the Westchester writers group. I am grateful to Ellen Belitsky, Clare Pierson, and Louisa Kalsner-Kershen for a critical reading of the manuscript. I also wish to acknowledge the input of a wonderful creative writing instructor, author and poet, Rebecca McClanaghan whose classes I attended at the Hudson Valley Writers Center.

PREFACE

The Germans invaded Antwerp on May 10th 1940. It was the largest city in northern Belgium with a major seaport and railroad hub, as well as the diamond center of the world. There were about 45,000 Jews resident in Antwerp at that time, but in the dwindling window of opportunity, thousands escaped to other european countries,some to their eventual deaths. A number of them were already being actively deported to concentration camps.

By october of 1940 the Germans openly toughened their policies toward Jews, limiting their freedoms. About 25,000 Jews remained trapped in Antwerp. On April l4th, l94l, with the impetus of pro-nazi Belgian organizations, Antwerp endured its own Kristalnacht. Synagogues were burnt, holy Jewish books and Torahs were destroyed and Jewish stores were attacked and looted. I was 5 years old and witnessed the pogrom. By May 1942 the Jews were required to wear the yellow star badge. Soon afterward began the systematic mass arrest of Jews all over Begium. I went into hiding on October 10th, l942. Almost two years later on September 4th 1944, the Allied forces liberated Antwerp. Only 800 Jews were counted alive. I was one of the few children left. I was 8 years old.

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

       I

              M

                     A

                            G

                                   E

                                          S

My childhood returns to me as a collection of isolated images. They are not linked, but the adult in me wants to connect them to satisfy a sense of order. In one of my earliest memories, it is the Sabbath, and I am all dressed up for synagogue, wearing my new white shoes. I must be about three years old. I am standing near the window of the living room, watching the dust mites fly in a sunbeam. The feeling is, at once, exciting and peaceful.

In another, I am at Stadspark in Antwerp with my mother. We go there almost every day. I am running through some bushes with other children, searching for little nuts on the ground. My mother is talking to another mother. I hear her complain that I don’t keep my dresses clean when I play. The other mother praises her daughter for neatness. I wonder why I am not neat.

I see a photograph—it is a sunny day; we are at the beach at Ostende. I am sitting on my father’s lap. My hair is tied with a big bow on top of my head. My parents are dressed in street clothes. We are surrounded by a group of friends and cousins in bathing suits. Their arms are linked, and everyone looks happy. How could I have known the fragility of such pleasures?

I am back as a four-year-old child in the caboose of a motorcycle with my mother, driven by my father using his good leg. The other is paralyzed from childhood polio. We are heading on rough roads toward Dunkirk. The German invasion of Belgium and France has begun, and we try to get there in time to board a ship of the retreating British army. We are greeted by total chaos. Explosions and flashing lights everywhere. People milling all around. I fall under a moving truck but come out the other end unscathed to meet the eyes of my astonished parents. We are told there is no space for civilians on these ships. We are stuck. The attempted escape to England has failed. We are left with no choice but to turn around and head home like so many others. I run a high fever all the way back, unaware of the consequences of this foiled journey.

It is 1985. Many years after the war’s end, in a brief business venture, I sit at the counter of my aquarium store in Ottawa, Canada, and watch the reflection of street traffic on the fish tanks. A small gray car whips past the Australian rainbows. A bus mingles with the golden high-fin swordtails and uncovers two old women shuffling slowly past. A figure moves up the steps parallel with the Rasbora heteremorphas. I turn my head in his direction, hoping for a customer, but no, he’s only peering at the monstrous blowfish in the window display, its mouth open wide with terror, fixed permanently in a puffed up state of terminal shock. It is in this quiet place that I am prone to my own reflections.

Other images surprise me. I am standing at a steamed-up kitchen window, drawing airplanes dropping bombs. My mother exclaims to my father, Look what Jenny is doing! A child drawing bombs!

I am in kindergarten at the convent school behind my house. I am supposed to genuflect to a shrine of the Holy Virgin. I try not to, but sometimes, I do. We make paper cutouts and play in the yard at recess.

I am no longer in kindergarten. I was there only a few months. Jewish children are no longer allowed to attend school. They are also forbidden to go to the park. I can still play in my backyard when the weather allows.

I miss playing with children, but I find a way to have a conversation with a handsome little boy in the building next door. He stands on the balcony of his second-floor apartment and addresses me in French, and I reply in a language that sounds like French to me, and neither of us seems to mind.

My parents and I are standing outside our house and watching a fire on the other side of the railroad tracks. It is the large synagogue. There is a huge bonfire of prayer books in front of the building. The acrid smell of smoke everywhere. A hot smell that has never left me.

CHAPTER TWO

Prelude

To

Hiding

The aquarium door opens with a lurch and moves me from my reverie. Three tight-jean, leather-jacket types hurtle in. After a moment’s bewilderment at the variety of life our lakes and oceans offer, the leader asks, Ya got them people-eatin’ fish, the perrenas?

No, we don’t carry piranhas, I say. They’re too nasty. I’m in a responsive mood, so I make a conciliatory offer. Would you like to see the deadly lionfish? It has poisonous fins. Why, a sting from this gorgeous creature can send you to intensive care. The pain is so excruciating that the natives who collect them have been known to commit suicide.

The trio is visibly pleased with this bit of savagery. They shift around, thumbs in pockets, tense with the prospect of an unexpected thrill. I feel compelled to play it to the hilt. As a matter of fact, it’s his lunchtime. Wanna see him eat? I capture a reluctant feeder goldfish and carry him, tossing and twitching in the net, to a large saltwater aquarium. Discreetly, I slide the glass top back and meticulously lower the sacrifice into the inhospitable deep. Purple and green fins extend like two splendid butterfly wings; eyes hooded mysteriously, the lion feigns innocence. He watches me, sizing me up. Then, in a lightning-swift thrust, snaps his prey and holds it prisoner in