Read reflections and testimonies written by Holocaust survivors in their own words.
Blog Home > esther rosenfeld starobin
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A Memoir
September 30, 2022
Tell it all –
Share my story
But I remember.
Did I remember it years ago?
What brings the memory to me now?
A flash, a hidden thought surfaces:
My memoir is truly only mine. -
Adapting
September 30, 2022
How difficult it is to identify one thing I learned from all the different people who raised me. My parents, of course, were the first people I must think about. My instinct tells me they took advantage of an opportunity, and trusted family and strangers. I think this trust was really learning to adapt to new situations.
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Goodbye, Bicycle
September 30, 2022
With an inward sigh of relief, I handed the bike over to Cristina. It was a beautiful bike, hardly used, with ten gears. I really had tried to master the gears, but I walked it to the top of my street because I couldn’t make it up the hill peddling. I was assured by my daughter and son-in-law that if I changed gears, I would be able to. Well, maybe they could but I just couldn’t remember how to change the gears or what direction to change them. It had been my retirement gift from them. Very thoughtful, I supposed.
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The Shadow
September 30, 2022
The sun is bright,
Birds flutter to and fro
Ever-present but I was unaware:
In the shadows lurks
The Holocaust. -
Yom Kippur Afternoon Services
September 30, 2022
I belong to a Reform synagogue. On Yom Kippur, I always go to the afternoon service, which is led by laypeople. When my sister, Edith, was alive, she often came with me because we didn’t need tickets, as we did for the morning service. Over the years, I have become a member of the Religious Practices Committee. Several years ago, the Reform movement published new prayer books for Shabbat and then the high holidays. Our congregation has been using them ever since except for the afternoon Yom Kippur service.
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My Mothers
October 22, 2020
I have been an orphan since August 14, 1942, but I have never thought of myself that way. At the May 14, 2019, meeting for Echoes of Memory, the survivor memoir writing group, I listened to two people read their writings. Both writers talked about their mothers and specific actions their mothers had taken. One person spoke of all the actions his mother took to save him and the family. The other writer spoke of the ways his mother had made his childhood a time of happiness and encouragement. Both writings made me feel very sad. It has made me think of my mother, but I cannot remember her at all.
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Interconnections
October 22, 2020
I don’t remember when I first met my cousin Suse. Suse was the daughter of my Aunt Rosa, one of my father’s sisters. Once I was an adult, I visited Suse whenever I was in London. It was always fun and very English, these visits. She and her husband, Frank Underwood, lived in a lovely section of London on the third floor of an apartment building. No elevator here, just a lot of stairs. Making tea was a definite ritual in their home but somehow very relaxing. The teapot had to be warmed as well as the cups. Suse was very exacting in all she did. When Suse developed diabetes, she carefully adapted her favorite cake recipes so that she could still eat them. The Underwoods loved to walk all over London and take walking trips in other parts of England. When my husband, Fred, and I visited, we often spent time with them walking in a nearby park.
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Obligations
October 23, 2019
My sister Bertl was always present in my life. Bertl was the person who guided our siblings and me to become a strong, cohesive family. She was opinionated and had a clear vision of what was right and wrong. Maybe it was her German birth. But she is gone now, as are my other three siblings. So, I ask myself, what are my obligations to keep the family strong and resilient?
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One Good Day
November 1, 2015
By train and boat, and other means, I arrived in Thorpe, Norwich, England, in June 1939 to live with the Harrisons. Mr. Harrison, Uncle Harry, read a sign on the bulletin board at the shoe factory where he worked, asking for families willing to take refugee children from Germany. I was just past my second birthday and had been brought from Germany by an organization called the Kindertransport. While I had three sisters, each living in separate places in England, I arrived by myself.
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Looking for My Father
September 17, 2006
I know my father, Adolf Rosenfeld, was born in 1898 in Korb, Germany. Korb is a very small place. He apprenticed as a baker when he was a young teenager. During World War I he was in the army. During his service in the war he lost a leg. Consequently, when he returned to Korb after the war, he could not work as a baker.
