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My mother’s desk connected me with our shared heritage
They sent the other one on tour to New York. And on a cold day in late March, two long-haired guys from Nebraska carried that second desk from their U-Haul through my front door and installed it in my living room.
In the 1930s, ORT ran schools across Poland, but its furniture-making program was based in Warsaw. The ORT website has a picture of a cabinet that looks a lot like our desk, with eight wood panels identical to the ones I’d run my fingers along as a child, as well as an English-language flyer announcing the display of furniture in New York and seeking funding. Of course, the story of that era of Polish Judaism has a tragic ending. After the rise of Adolf Hitler, ORT continued to try to ameliorate conditions for Jews in the Warsaw Ghetto, funding a garment factory to make clothes for the inhabitants and operating vocational schools and training courses. In the 1960s a survivor, Rachel Gurman, recounted her time in the workshops, and how excited she and her fellows were that they could make a living during such hardship and terror. She described the nearsighted director, Joseph Jaszunski, who, “exhausted and depressed, would arrive at his office early each morning. … Sometimes he arrived with broken glasses, his face covered with blood. Because of his nearsightedness, he would not notice a German coming his way and so would not leave the pavement or take off his hat.” Jaszunski and his family were deported to the Treblinka death camp in January 1943, where they all died, but the ORT programs continued. Not long after, the Nazis decided to deport all the remaining Jews in the ghetto to the camps, and the residents fought back. Few survived.
As a historian, I’ve spent lots of time teaching and learning about the horrors of the past, but the Holocaust has never been specifically part of my story. My Jewish ancestors came to America in the late 19th century, the Ashkenazi branch fleeing pogroms in Lithuania and the Sephardim fleeing poverty in Holland. But the family history of this desk and the story of its origins have merged, somehow, with the recent era of personal tragedy. My mom died in 2018. I spent my last days with her doing the final edits of her book about, as she writes, “the story of the women who attended my grandmother’s [Belle’s] funeral.” It’s about the women of New York who fought for suffrage, then found ways — against great opposition — to move into political life and urban administration. Working on it, literally at her deathbed, I found myself drawn into the early-20th-century history of my family, of which this desk is a part.
My dad died this January; he had Alzheimer’s, and he fell just before New Year’s and went to sleep and never woke up. It takes months, though, to handle all the things, all the stuff, that death forces on us. Each object opens a new wound that scabs over slowly, if all, waiting for the next trigger. It was on Mom’s birthday at the end of March, just by chance, that movers arrived with some of the things my siblings and I had agreed would go to me. So now the desk sits in my house, uncomfortably wedged in a corner next to a small couch.
Can you call yourself an orphan at nearly 50? My parents are gone now, and the weight of keeping memories falls more heavily on my brother, my sister and me. To some extent, this is what it means to grow older, to be left without your elders. It’s easy to feel adrift in time, and so I return to the desk. I put my kids’ pictures on it. I tried to revise this essay sitting at it but fled to the kitchen table instead. I left a medical bill sitting on its surface, a promise to return later.
By David Perry
David Perry is a journalist and senior academic adviser to the history department at the University of Minnesota. He is the co-author of “The Bright Ages: A New History of Medieval Europe.”