Faith and Begora

I am part of a Jewish survivors of the Holocaust family, so why was St. Patrick's day so important to us? I don't know, but my mom (who died 6 years ago this summer) loved the holiday. She, my father, my kids, siblings and I would join them at local Irish eateries. We'd dress up in green and partake in Irish corned beef and cabbage and green beer lunches. Now with her gone, we don't go anymore and each time I pass a pub I think of her. Miss you Mom!

My book made her cry/ her review made me cry.

A lovely women from JD Writersblog wrote the most beautiful review of my book:

The Holocaust really did happen and we should never forget that. Many survived only to live with unseen scars and permanent memories of the atrocities that were inflicted on them by these horrific people under the command of Hitler and his regime. There are many who would tell this story differently; there are others that would hide from the truth and bury their heads in the sand. Author Jeannette Katzir will take you back in time to where it all began for her mother and describe what becomes of her family and her in a poignant and heartbreaking novel with a title that surely fits: Broken Birds: The Story of My Momila.
Twelve year old Channa Perschowski and her older brother Isaac are forced to leave all their worldly possessions, family and the safety home to flee the horrors that would befall so many at the hands of the Nazi’s who inflicted more than just pain on the Jewish people. No child should or adult should have to endure what Channa and her brother did when their mother Rachel and sister Yetta, sacrificed themselves and were forced to remain at the hands of the inhumanities endured by so many people because they were Jewish. Told through the voice of Channa’s daughter Jaclyn, you learn not just about the Holocaust and its devastating impact on this and many other displaced families, but what happens when trust and family loyalties become frail and fall apart and the priorities that prominent are anything but family based.
Returning to her home at the close of the war brings the end result in perspective as Channa comes face to face with the destruction and harsh reality of having to leave Poland and embark on a life in America along with her brother, Isaac. As the author completes Channa’s introduction to the reader she next tells us about her father, Nathan and all he endured at the hands of the Germans in the camps before coming to America. As she recounts his life with his mother Jolin an enterprising woman taken by soldiers in Uzhgorod in Hungry, as the government there decided to inflict their own rules of Anti-Semitism on the Jewish population living there. As with segregation in the South where blacks were forced to ride in the back of the bus and eat at separate counters in a restaurant, Jews were forced to walk on different sides of the streets from Gentiles and hand over their hard earned businesses to them just because they said so. As fear set in 14 year old Nathan’s life would take a horrific a family member is killed and life would become more tragic. Food became scarce, anti-Semitism was on the rise and by 1944 the Hungarian Government became just as cruel as the German. Forced to spend time in Dachau and finally escaping and hidden, Nathan and his friends hope to find safe passage to America and freedom.
Alone and with nowhere else to go he humbly asks his stepfamily for help although they really did not want to. As he became acclaimed to the country and learned much from his experiences he goes to a dance where Channa and Nathan finally meet and their life would begin together. Channa worked at many jobs, saved money and her brother had taken much gold and hidden it during the war. But, when Channa and Nathan finally marry and their family begins to grow, Isaac, her brother becomes more like a stranger to her, enlisting Nathan into helping him start a new bungalow business, taking the gold for himself and forcing her to give over her well earned money needed for her family, convincing Nathan to turn against her.
Like the feathers on a bird, which are so fragile and delicate so is the structure of this family, which has begun to crumble and fall apart. Even as the dynamics of the family changed and with Channa having five children each different and requiring different needs, the family did not always get along and what happens will teach not only our narrator but other family members some long and hard lessons. Jaclyn married Gol an ambitious man who provided well for their family. Working together with her husband they built several lucrative businesses. But, sister Shirley married to Eric found herself always in competition with her older sister and often caused much strife within the family. Added to that Eric’s business sense and acumen were not always honest and this too caused a major rift in the family along our narrator always felt that family comes first and must be trusted, little did she know that they were the ones that would ultimately betray her in the end. Channa and Nathan were drifting apart and the family was becoming as worn as a coat with a torn seam that could not longer be repaired. As Gol, tried to help many members of Jaclyn’s family make a living, he also realized that certain things would never work out and Eric and Shirley two of them. As Jaclyn enlisted the cooperation of her sister in using her address so her children could attend a better school, the stab in the back came hard and swift and the knife would forever remain.
Single minded, difficult to dissuade from her own point of view, Channa remained a force to be reckoned with and her children rarely went against her wishes or thoughts. Difficult to deal with, often blunt and too straightforward in her remarks to her children, it is amazing that she was able to keep her family together at all. Stating that family comes first and you only trust your blood, learning that from surviving during the war, our narrator soon learns through many hard lessons in life and in business that her mother’s viewpoint was not always right or true but she respected and honored it. Betrayals come in all forms and from many different places in this family. New members are not exactly what they seem and sides are taken and battle lines are drawn.
But, Jaclyn could not say no to her nephew Garth no matter what her sister had done to her and instead of common sense and saying no to his working with Gol, she managed to figure out something that he could do anyway which once again proved wrong. Channa and Nathan were two war torn individuals that would never really overcome what they endured in life nor were they ever really happy for the successes of their children. Happiness was relative to them and certain aspects of life were such as marriage and family loyalty was foremost in their minds. As the author so aptly states her parents were like two broken birds waiting for the next crisis or shoe to fall. But, the real dissent starts when Channa passes. As the will is read each family member realizes the end result of their mother’s wishes and vies for a large piece of her estate. Emails back and forth and harsh words said, one brother wanting it all and the rest fighting for their share, this family becomes more than just broken apart. As the family visits their father’s homeland they begin to understand what kind of life he weathered and relived his past right in front of his children. Many will deny and say that the Holocaust was made up but those of us who had family who lived and survived it know better. As they visited the death camps and saw the crematoriums reliving his past in the present. But, what would the end result be for the family and who would finally get what Channa left and who would be left without.
Channa Perschowski was a strong yet fearful woman who distrusted even her own husband and thought he would eventually leave her. How can a family mend itself when its branches are too broken and its backbone not able to keep it in place? Author Jeannette Katzir brings to light so many important issues in this outstanding true story of the lives of her dysfunctional family members, the greed, betrayal and distrust that ensued and one woman: Channa: Her Momila, which is what my mom calls me, that only wanted to be loved. Powerfully written, heartbreaking, events clearly depicted and described and I am honored to have been asked to read and review this outstanding book. The Holocaust did more than just take the lives of those killed, it destroyed the spirit, the joy and the souls of both Nathan and Channa who lived it, survived and created a live for their five ever so different children in a world filled with many more Broken Birds. One simple document: One Will: The Words of One Woman: What had Channa Done? Read this novel and understand what happens when the greatest war of your life is not fought on the battlefield.
After just losing my precious sister, Marcia, who was my best friend in the whole world, I cannot imagine why any family would want to drift so far apart and not fix those broken branches and make them into a tall, strong tree with many strong limbs. This is one novel that everyone needs to read and hopefully will open your eyes to the importance and love of family. A sad but true story that brought tears to my eyes and much more. My grandmother and her sisters survived the camps in Poland and told me what they went through and more. I dedicate this review to all those Holocaust Survivors to our outstanding author who had the courage to share her sister and to my grandmother late grandmother Katie Goldberg who lived it.
Fran Lewis: Reviewer

Window of Opportunity

When I hit the big 5-0 I had no idea the changes that would ensue. I'm not only talking about sagging boobs, wrinkles and diminished energy level- I'm talking about my Window of Opportunity, which was closing in on my dreams and aspirations. This is not to say I don't have wonderful new hopes, goals and dreams, but my old dreams . . . the ones I thought I'd always be able to do, they are either fading fast or are gone altogether.
I have been riding horses since I was a teenager. When I got old enough to own my own horse, it was one of the happiest days of my life. I have visions of being in the Olympics or at least becoming a fine rider. My riding friends and I went on fabulous riding vacations, but we saved up a few special ones for later.
BIG MISTAKE
Later didn't come. I got older and fear took hold of my insides and robbed me of that fast fast ride through Hungary. It even robbed me of a slow ride through Italy.
Later didn't come.
My husband is hoping to do the John Muir trek and when I asked if I could do it, my husband said he didn't think so. It would be too difficult for me - physically.
Now I am in good shape, or so I think, but I've still waited too long.
I am now more determined than ever to not allow my new mid-life dreams to wait another day, because I have learned (the hard way) that later doesn't come.

Never mix Deli with Delivery

When I got the call that my daughter’s contractions were five minutes apart, I was climbing out of my skin. It was her second child, but the pregnancy had been plagued with problems. I hurried to the hospital and found myself a comfy spot in the hospital waiting room, and waited . . . and waited . . . and waited.

Amid a constant pageant of bulging bellies arriving to have their babies, and phone calls by friends and family checking in, I finished my book, and I waited.

The sliding doors opened and my daughter waddled out alongside her husband . . . still pregnant. “False alarm,” she told me. “They’re going to induce me tomorrow morning between 7 – 8 in the morning, but don’t rush over until I tell you.

I kissed her goodbye and went home for a good night's sleep.

I set the clock for 7AM and decided to meet my girlfriend, who happened to be my daughter’s delivery coach, for breakfast. I placed a slew of magazines, a pad of paper and some pens into a grocery bag and then tossed in my fully charged cell phone. It had been on my person every day for months.

“Come around 10,” my daughter told me. “Don’t rush.” My girlfriend and I leisurely munched on bagels, pancakes, eggs and cappuccinos at a nearby deli. We chatted about my daughter’s false alarm and previous delivery. We talked about art, babies . . . . everything.

At 10 o’clock I paid the check, and reached in my purse for my cell phone, but it wasn’t there. I ran back to my car, and there in the grocery bag was my cellphone.

I glanced at a text message that my son-in-law sent me stating:

“Hurry the baby is coming.”

We sped down the street, but were held up by a middle aged WOMAN, obviously in no great hurry, clogged up the entrance to the parking lot with a barrage of stupid time consuming questions. “Which way do I go to park? How long can I park? What if I can’t find a parking spot? Blah blah blah . . . .

“SOME OF US ARE HAVING BABIES!” I yelled out the window.

I rushed into the delivery room and there seated on a petit couch was my son-in-law holding a newborn baby. I looked over at my daughter, who was chuckling, and then back again at the baby. Maybe they borrowed one from the next room just to bug me! But no, I had missed the whole wonderful thing. Camera at the ready, excitement oozing out of every corpuscle I had, and I had missed it. I had failed my daughter and felt soooooo bad. They had counted on me to be there and somehow I had done the stupid thing of leaving my cellphone in the car.

When my first child was born, I was all of 21 and the entire process scared the crap out of me. The doctors arranged the mirror so I could watch her coming into the world, but I removed my glasses, rendering myself blind. I don’t want to see that!

“I want you to be in the room, when I deliver Mom,” my daughter told me when my first grandchild was born four years earlier. I was thrilled. When the moment came for my grandson to come I watched as my daughter writhed with the pain as someone, whose physicality was still a mystery to us, tried to break out of her body. The sight of his silver dollar sized brown hair electrified us when he first crowned. And I watched as one shoulder led the way, followed by another, followed by a torso and two legs spilled out.

He was out, dripping with gloppy, drippy afterbirth and it was beautiful. His cry was a combination of a screech and a scream, but it was a most magical sound.

This time my granddaughter had come and, I had MISSED IT! I was twenty-four minutes late, but I was still late. The baby was clean, swaddled and everything was over. There were no photographs of that special moment when she took her first gulp of air or of my daughter’s face when they laid the tiny body on her chest.

I had let them down, and felt like the worst kind of sh t. But this was not my moment, but my daughter and son-in-law’s moment. It was the new baby girl’s time.

I held the tiny 6 pound 9 ounce bundle in my arms and when my girlfriend hurried into the room, she too couldn’t believe her eyes.

Two days have passed and everyone has met her. She is lovely, quiet and calm. I have taken loads of photos of her and in the course of her lifetime will take many more, but the ones I missed can never be re-done.

The moral of this story is one my mother used to tell me: Don’t try and to two important things at the same time.

TRANSLATION; No delicatessen food when your grandchild is about to make his/her debut.

By Jeannette Katzir

Author of Broken Birds, The Story of My Momila

www.brokenbirds.com

Taking down my blue ribbons

Three pieces of twine are stretched across the wall over my computer screen. On them hang Blue, Red and Yellow ribbons. I have been horseback riding for years, and even hoped to one day get really really good.
BUT at the ripe of age of 50 plus I have come to the realization that it will never be. Worse than that my confidence has all but forsaken me and a riding trip I was planning on taking this spring is being canceled because I just can't do it.
Sad - Yes. Depressed - You bet, but I must accept that this is happening to me.
I have been hesitant to take down the ribbons, because in doing so I was admitting to failure. My time will have come and gone and I would never have reached the levels I dreamed about.
But that is life, sucky as it is and I will sadly place my small collection of ribbons into a box.
Luckily as my riding ability slid into the abyss I have joys I will reach toward and try and perfect. I write. It is something that gives me tremendous satisfaction. I photograph which is as much a part of me as anything and I am a grandmother - something that trumps everything else.
A very wise person once told me something: "When one door closes, another opens."
I'm anxious to see what's behind the next door.

I'm your Mommy's mommy.

When you think back to the first time you truly understood the concept of who your mother's mother was, how old were you?
My delicious grandson is four and last night for the very first time when I asked the question: "Who is you mommy's mommy?" he pointed to ME!
No, he didn't come up with the formula for splitting the atom, but he knows who I am. I'm not just a woman whose name is Grand-mama, I have a family tie to him.
He now not only recognizes who we are, but what relationship we have to each other and him.
In the world of a four year old it is a very big concept to grasp, and I'm just jazzed I was there to see it.
Ahh being a grandparent . . . . it rocks!

Big Love and Polygamy

I am a huge fan of the HBO show "Big Love". I love the complexities of multi-marriages and all the hoopla as they try and keep it a secret, while concurrently trying to mainstream it.
That said-I have strong opinion of Polygamy . . . I am all for it! BUT AND THE BUT IS BIG: no children are to be born from these unions. Why should children be brought into this mess. And I don't care what those women who don't mind sharing their man and having a once or twice a week booty-call say . . . . this isn't good for kids! I also think that the women should be no younger than 21 to get married. Anyone below that age isn't mature enough to make such a monumental commitment.
I have a question, Why would any woman want to do this? I understand that for the man this is Utopia, but for the woman WHY?