Advance Praise for

The Letters Project

‘The Holocaust,’ Eleanor Reissa writes in this unforgettable and courageous book, ‘is attached to me like my skin and I would be formless without it.’ A very personal story that is also a fundamental one of a woman trying to make sense of her life and family and of the shadows that go back before she was born. There is plenty of feeling and sentiment but it never feels sentimental. Her inimitable wit leavens the sadder scenes. This journey of discovery is riveting, told with tender insight, at times heartbreaking and at times heartwarming just like the Yiddish songs that have delighted Ms. Reissa’s audiences.

—Joseph Berger, New York Times reporter and author of

Displaced Persons: Growing Up American After the Holocaust

Among the great number of personal takes on the Holocaust, Eleanor Reissa’s book really stands out, both for its intelligence and courage and for the unique way she braids the inter-generational stories together. In this brutal, poignant, and searingly honest book, Reissa simultaneously pieces together the unfathomable story of her Holocaust survivor father, reckons with the guilt she came to feel as his uncomprehending American daughter, and manages somehow to find insight and purpose in the ashes. This extraordinary account of two parallel journeys will stick with anyone privileged enough to read it.

—David Margolick, former New York Times reporter,

author of several books, including, The Promise and the Dream:

The Untold Story of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy

"The Letters Project is a wonderful book—funny, heartbreaking, and ultimately transcendent. Eleanor Reissa’s journey back into her family’s past makes for a gripping—and very human—international mystery. I highly recommend it."

—Tony Phelan, TV Showrunner for Grey’s Anatomy, Doubt,

and Council of Dads

Eleanor Reissa has written a gritty, fearless, yet funny memoir about herself, her family, and the Holocaust. Once I began reading it, I was completely swept away until the journey ended. I was moved by the power of this uniquely personal yet universal story.

—Julian Schlossberg, American motion pictures, theatre,

and television producer

A POST HILL PRESS BOOK

The Letters Project:

A Daughter’s Journey

© 2022 by Eleanor Reissa

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 978-1-63758-255-8

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-63758-256-5

Cover art by Bob Stern

Interior design and composition by Greg Johnson, Textbook Perfect

All people, locations, events, and situations are portrayed to the best of the author’s memory. While all of the events described are true, a few names and identifying details may have been changed to protect the privacy of the people involved.

Erich Fried, Vielleicht/ Gespräch mit einem Überlebenden

aus: Es ist was es ist.

Liebesgedichte Angstgedichte Zorngedichte

© 1983, 1996, 2007 Verlag Klaus Wagenbach

From The New Republic. © 2022 New Republic. All rights reserved. Used under license.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

Post Hill Press

New York • Nashville

posthillpress.com

Published in the United States of America

Contents

PREFACE

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

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

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For my parents

For my grandparents

For my brothers

And for Frida

What is the meaning of life? It’s the lineage and the connection to the past and the connection to the future. It’s in our children. It’s in our friends. It’s in our work. It’s all around us.

— Philip Glass

We have come here to remember. How and with what will we remember?

— Aharon Appelfeld

One of the most important things I had learnt in Auschwitz was that one must always avoid being a nobody.

— Primo Levi

PREFACE

We look at this world once in childhood. The rest is memory.

— Don DeLillo

Thirty years ago, when my mother died at the age of sixty-four—the age that I am now—I went through all of her belongings. In the bedroom, in the back of her lingerie drawer, I found an old leather purse. Inside that purse was a large wad of folded papers in a plastic bag.

They were letters.

My First Project

I hadn’t thought about this for many years, but when I was a kid in Brooklyn, I had to do a science project for my fourth-grade class. Science was not my strong suit, but I came up with what I thought was a very smart idea. I had recently been to the Museum of Natural History on a school trip and seen the miracle of the extinct dinosaurs brought back to life in the Great Hall: the ancient bones, enormous skeletons, pieced together to re-create a world gone by. Yes, that’s what I would do too. I would make a dinosaur out of bones. Chicken bones. My grandfather was a kosher butcher, and I thought: I’ve got this covered.

I did not exactly think it through.

Did I mean to use the chicken bones to make a dinosaur or use the chicken bones to reconstruct the body of a chicken? I don’t recall exactly what I was thinking except that it seemed like a great idea. Unique. I bet no one else would think of doing that.

I began by asking my family to save the chicken bones from their dinners for me. My family consisted of two uncles and their wives plus one set of grandparents, on my mother’s side. Everyone else had been killed in the Holocaust.

Since they were sometimes kind and loving people, they agreed to help me. Of course, they laughed about it. I was a bit of a joke to them in general. They thought I was a weird kid—easy to laugh and easier still to cry. When I wept, my mother used to say, You want a reason to cry? I’ll give you a reason to cry, and then she would lift the back of her hand as though to hit me—which she never did—but it did make me stop crying.

Every week for nearly a month, they would give me little plastic baggies filled with the archeological remains of their Sabbath meals: bones from their kosher chickens. Sometimes, the bones would arrive intact, still attached to the greater skeleton of the chicken, with the knee bone connected to the thighbone, just like in the song. The chicken’s skinny little rib bones would arrive either as separate calcified matchsticks or, when I was lucky, they would be attached to the sturdy spine of that sacrificial fowl. The neck bones—di gorgl, as we said onomatopoetically in Yiddish—might arrive connected too, so that you could actually visualize the spinal curve leading from the chicken’s shoulders and narrowing up to the little pea-brain chicken head, not unlike the dinosaurs’ at the museum. Or they would be loose independent little rectangular vertebrae that you could stack up on top of each other in size-place, like children’s blocks. The smallest and most intricate bones were from the chickens’ feet, a delicacy—at least to me. I loved gnawing on those juicy little feet and regretted that there were only two per chicken.

After their meals, my relatives not only washed the dishes—no one in my family had a dishwasher back then—but they also saved those bones for me, scrubbing them until they were nearly bleached white, bringing to mind the thoughtful care and attention given to a Jewish body when it is prepared for burial. A final act of kindness that is not usually afforded to chickens.

This science project seemed like a no-brainer to me, and ultimately, of course, it was a no-brainer—as in, there was no brain used in the execution of this project. My plan was to collect enough bones so that I would have all the pieces I needed to make a dinosaur. Or a chicken. I was still not quite sure which.

Had I ever studied the anatomy of a dinosaur? Or of a chicken? Did I investigate how to attach bones to each other? By glue or by wire or thread? Did I prepare in any single way? Do the slightest amount of reading or research?

No. I only collected the bones, week after week, baggie after baggie, emptying the contents into one large, black plastic garbage bag that rested on the floor of my bedroom closet.

The time was rapidly approaching for me to submit my project. A few days before it was due, I began the work in earnest. I covered the kitchen table with newspaper, took out the bag of bones, and spilled out its contents. It was impressive to see how many I had collected. Piled high, the bones looked like a mass grave of some kind. The Massacre of the Innocent Chickens.

And so, like Noah, I paired like with like. The leg bones in this corner, the wing bones there, spines and ribs here, feet, necks, and so on. I had a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle.

I looked at all those bones on the table. I was ten years old. I stared at that mess and realized there was no way in hell I could do what I had set out to do, what I had told my family that I would do, what I pictured in my mind that I would do. I didn’t have a clue about how to execute and complete that great idea that I had imagined.

Hastily, I bought one large six-volt battery, connected the ends of two wires to its anode and cathode and the other ends to a simple door buzzer, mounted the whole business onto a plank of wood with a couple of screws and—bingo!—my science project. The chicken bones were sadly and unceremoniously thrown away. A waste of time and effort.

Now, more than fifty years later, I’m taking on a project that reminds me of my dinosaur-chicken bone idea. The enormity of it is something I clearly have not thought through. My modus operandi has not changed. No research or scholarly preparation. Just imagination and hope for the best.

There is no reason to believe that the outcome of this project will be any different than the fate of that mound of bones on the kitchen table.

CHAPTER ONE

It is not up to you to finish the work, but you are not free to desist from it.

— Pirkei Avot 2:16

The Letters

Both of my parents lived through the Holocaust.

My mother died two days after her sixty-fourth birthday in December of 1986, exactly one year after I married my first husband, Allen—a scrappy, Jewish, Brooklyn-born drummer who really did march to his own beat. I was in a hurry to marry at that time because my mother was dying, and I desperately wanted her at my wedding. It was, perhaps, not the smartest reason to get married but certainly well-intentioned.

My father also died in December, but in 1976, ten years earlier, when he was seventy-five. There was a twenty-year spread between my parents. He was born in 1901, and she in 1922. They separated when I was five, in 1958, but did not divorce until four years later in 1962 when I was in the fourth grade—the year I tried to make a dinosaur out of a chicken.

That year, my mother said she was going on a vacation. She, my brother Seymour, and I had recently moved across the street from the three-family house where we lived with my father into the top floor of a six-story walk-up apartment building where we lived without him. While my mother was away, I stayed with Seymour, who was twelve years older than me.

It was only when she returned home that I learned she had been to Mexico. The clue was a gift she gave me, a souvenir—a boxy leather shoulder bag that had the word Mexico embossed on it. Even then, I thought the quality of the leather was lousy. Hard and stiff, lacking any grace or artistry. I wanted to like it but I didn’t. I don’t think I ever used it, even though it was oddly reversible. So many possibilities and yet so…ugly.

I also learned that during that Mexican vacation, we had gotten a divorce from my father. That was what my mother said: "we," as though I was married to him too.

In those days, no one’s parents were divorced except for movie stars. I remember that people would often express their regrets to me about my parents’ divorce. Oh, so sorry, they would say sympathetically. I would respond easily that it was okay, no big deal, all for the best, and that I was probably better off.

When I think about that now, I wonder whose words those were.

From the time that they separated, I lived exclusively with my mother. I visited my father on most Sundays until I became a teenager, when I visited him less frequently. My time with him was an obligation that weighed heavily on me and one that I always felt ambivalent about. There was an uncomfortable gap between us. Maybe it was his age or his broken English or his love, which seemed too needy. To him, I was everything. To me, he was a chore.

On our Sunday visits, I would arrive around 11 a.m. and leave no later than 3 p.m. My father would make me lunch, always the same thing—a pre-cooked chicken from Meal Mart, the first kosher takeout place of its day. He always took the time to doctor-up the chicken for me, trying to make it seem homemade. Even though I was just a kid, I thought that he ruined a perfectly delicious, crispy rotisserie chicken. I knew enough not to say so, but there was something cloying and fatty about his newly sautéed, overcooked chicken. He also bought and doctored a side dish called potato nik, a kind of potato pie, which when homemade, is a fantastic delicacy: crispy on the outside, smooth and creamy on the inside. The French might call it a galette. But his version was mushy and soggy, more like a potato-sponge casserole.

We would eat, and he would wash up. We would play some chess—which he had taught me—and then he’d fall asleep on the couch while I watched TV, usually The Bowery Boys or Abbott and Costello. After that, I would find some excuse to leave and take the subway or bus by myself and go back home to my mother. He and I would speak on the phone a couple of times during the week in short, awkward conversations.

Everything changed in 1970 when I was seventeen and a freshman at Brooklyn College. My father had a stroke, followed by a series of other strokes, which left him with a paralyzed left arm and leg, and severely impaired speech.

My mother visited him in the hospital during those first few days. He wept deeply the minute he saw her. They hadn’t seen each other for nearly a decade, since their divorce. It was painful for me to watch my father cry like that, like a child. So, believing that I was an adult who knew many things, if not everything, I asked my mother not to visit him anymore since it seemed to upset him so much. As the actual adult who might have known better but didn’t, my mother agreed—and never visited him again. Unfortunately, at that time, I did not know that uncontrollable emotions are one of the side effects of a stroke.

After a few weeks, once he was medically stable, he was sent to Rusk Institute in Manhattan where they gave him physical, occupational, and speech therapy for nearly a month. He improved somewhat; walking—albeit unsteadily—with a cane, and his speech became minimally clearer. His left arm remained paralyzed, a dead weight around his neck, supported by a shoulder sling. The hospital declared that he had progressed as far as he could and that they would no longer care for him. As his only blood relative and next of kin, I would have to decide what would become of him—where and how he would live. Clearly, he would not be able to manage in his apartment without assistance.

I was very conflicted about what to do. He was seventy and I was seventeen. I had recently rented my first apartment, a one-bedroom flat near the college, and I was excited to be on my own. I came to the difficult conclusion that I could not, and ultimately would not, give up my newly independent adult life to care for my father. Another child might have done otherwise, but I did not.

I asked around for advice and was told—and believed—that a nursing home was the only logical option. I looked hard to find the best-of-the-worst nursing homes, which by its very nature, was a crappy solution. I found one that was new and seemed clean and less depressing than the others.

During the first two years of his nursing home stay, I visited my father every day because I believed his death was imminent. I was frightened for him. He seemed weak and, as usual, I imagined the worst—that he would not survive for long. I obviously didn’t know him well enough.

I was able to visit him so regularly, either after my classes at Brooklyn College or before my waitress job, because just a few months before his stroke, my father brought me to the shiny dealership on Kings Highway and bought me a brand new 1970 Volkswagen Beetle. On my seventeenth birthday, I would have my own set of wheels—also known as freedom.

Many people thought it was wrong—or, at the very least, odd—for my father, who had survived Auschwitz, to buy a German car. He didn’t seem bothered by it and, in fact, liked German products. I didn’t question his decision for a minute. I thought VWs were cool, and I was happy as hell to have one.

My father lived in that nursing home for six years, minimally improving his speech and gaining additional movement in his leg. His left arm never recovered any of its mobility even though he believed it would and worked hard in physical therapy to try to resurrect it.

He died of a heart attack in the early morning hours on December 8, 1976. Alone.

Although she was only in her thirties when they divorced, and a very bright, beautiful, vibrant woman, my mother never remarried. She worked in a sweatshop for nearly all of her days in America and lived in a rented basement apartment in Canarsie, an ethnically diverse working-class neighborhood in Brooklyn. I lived with her until the end of my first semester at Brooklyn College, when I fled to my own apartment, just before my father’s stroke. The decision to leave her was terribly conflicting for me. It was the ’70s and I desperately wanted to be free and live my own life, but I was immobilized by my guilt at abandoning my mother. However, I was not that immobilized that I did not get the heck out of there as quickly as I could.

In 1980, when she was fifty-eight, my mother was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, a brutal cancer of the bone marrow. She went through six years of harsh chemotherapy and had plenty of pain and agony. She tried to maintain her dignity throughout her ordeal and died in Sloan Kettering Hospital, ten years after my father, on December 26, 1986.

During her long illness, she often instructed me on what to do after she died: Go immediately to the safe deposit box, she said, and empty it out. Withdraw all the money from the bank. Right away. Act as though nothing has happened. Don’t tell anybody anything. I don’t want to know about that stuff now, I would say to her. But she didn’t care; she knew better. And immediately after her death, devastated, I did my best to follow her instructions.

Weeks later, I went through all of her belongings in the apartment. I found bits of cash and tissues, mints and lipsticks in various coat and jacket pockets. Her closets were full of outfits that she had made for herself over the years, dresses she had not worn since she took ill because the disease had distorted and mangled her petite body. Some of those dresses fit me, and I would have them. Her delicate hand and sharp eye were evident in all of them.

I looked through a lifetime of her objects. I touched everything, caressed and smelled and lingered over everything. I wanted everything because she was in every single thing.

It was at that time, in her lingerie drawer, that I found the purse. The one with the letters.

It was not like the Mexican-divorce purse. No, this one had craftsmanship and style. It was beautiful. Classic. It was made of soft, warm chocolate-brown calf leather. On the front was a sterling silver medallion, now tarnished black, with my mother’s initials RH, for Ruchale Hoff. I recognize the purse from a black-and-white photo of my mother, walking arm in arm down some European boulevard after the war with a woman who I believe was her aunt and who fiercely resembled my mother. More like an older sister, if only my mother had had a sister.

Inside that beautiful, worn, tired purse—a remnant from another world—I found a plastic bag from this world that contained a bunch of papers.

Handwritten letters. Many.

The letters were written on large, premium paper stock with a professionally printed business letterhead. In German. My father’s name, Ch.Schlüsselberg, (Ch. for Chaskel) was centered at the top of each page in red block letters. In black ink below his name, it said "Import" and listed a bunch of things in German that I didn’t understand. On the right side of the page was an address in the city of Stuttgart, Germany.

The letters were dated 1949.

I couldn’t make out the handwritten portion of the letters. The words swam across my eyes in long cursive waves that looked like bunches of mmmms and wwwws. I could only decipher the salutations, which were practically the same in every letter: Tayere Ruchale un Shamale. That was Yiddish for Dear Ruchale and Shamale. (The Yiddish suffix "le" has a diminutive, affectionate quality when attached to a name or a noun.)

Ruchale was my mother’s Yiddish name. In America, she called herself Ruth, even though Rachel would have been the literal translation. Shamale, my mother’s son from a short wartime marriage, was called Shamshin but became Seymour, even though Samson was more accurate. Those salutations were all I could decipher. Except for the signature. Those were the same too. They were all signed, Chaskel Schlüsselberg. My father’s full name. Each one of these letters, Chaskel Schlüsselberg. That was also how he signed