Doris Martin

Doris Martin

It’s not often we get the chance to hear a firsthand account of World War II from the mouth of a survivor.  Sure, you can read books and interviews or learn from history books or TV documentaries, but to actually hear a survivor speak about their experiences in their own words is a far more interesting and emotional experience. 

I recently had the pleasure of hearing Doris Martin speak at the Escondido Library.  I had seen her here in 2009, was incredibly moved by her story and bought a copy of her book, Kiss Every Step.  This time I talked my 16 year old son into attending with me.  He was reluctant but I reminded him that this might be his only chance to hear a Holocaust survivor speak.  I was glad he agreed to go with me and hoped he would be moved by the experience and receive the message that intolerance breeds unacceptable cruelty. 

Doris is a Polish Holocaust survivor.  She is in her eighties now, born the same year as my own mother, and is very attractive and well dressed.  The vulnerability in her voice and her small stature make me want to run up and give her a big hug.  When Doris speaks, the atrocities she experienced some 70 years ago still make her voice tremble with emotion.  She has a thick accent and her English is a bit broken but she is able to convey her story with powerful clarity.  She is still bewildered how Hitler could have such hatred toward her and her people who had done nothing to him.  She cannot fathom how anyone could treat fellow human beings, including innocent children and babies, so cruelly.  She was torn from her family, forced into Auschwitz and then another labor camp where she was stripped of her clothing and dignity, beaten, kicked, starved, degraded and humiliated.  Her voice echoes the horror of having witnessed the senseless killing of babies and watching people being marched into the “showers” where they were exterminated.  Her life was spared many times during the course of the war, for reasons she can’t explain.  Her story is unique in that her entire family survived.  It is quite rare for an entire Jewish family to have survived.  All seven of her family members were separated during the war and survived in different ways, and amazingly, all seven returned to their family home after the war.  They had no contact with each other during those years and had no idea if their loved ones had survived.  The stories of each family member as described in her book are compelling.  It is hard to imagine surviving or even wanting to survive in such conditions for a short time, let alone years.  Imagine living in constant fear and dread, starving, cold, and subjected to constant horror, pain and humiliation.

I was impressed that the library was filled to capacity, standing room only.  People of all ages came to hear Doris’s story and many were moved to tears as they listened.  While Doris feels no hatred toward the German people, she cannot forgive Hitler for the pain and suffering he caused. She thinks of him as the devil. 

Amazingly, she encounters those who tell her the Holocaust never happened and she is making it all up.  This must be the ultimate slap in the face; to be a witness and to suffer such horror, then to be told it never happened.  She feels the importance of her speaking is to teach people that yes, this really did happen,  and to encourage tolerance among all people regardless of race or religion.  She held up pictures of the crematorium, and an amazing photo recently found on the internet, of a group of women getting off the train at Auschwitz.  There in the middle of the group was Doris.  She was standing in a group of women destined for the “showers” before she was sent to a different labor camp.  Her husband recently discovered the picture on the internet and she was just as amazed as anyone else to see herself standing there in Auschwitz at the age of 14.

Head Bump

My kids and I were in a cabin in Big Bear.  We were having a fun family vacation and I was proud that I was able to take them there by myself, find the cabin, take them snowboarding and enjoy their company by a cozy fireplace along with my home cooking every evening. 

I liked to get up early so I could exercise, shower and get breakfast started before anyone awoke.  Standing under the shower that morning, I leaned over for the wash rag.  The tub was slippery and before I knew it, I was pitching forward, arms flailing for balance.  I try to imagine what I must have looked like:  naked, wet body, feet flying out from under me, arms waving spastically. Not pretty.  I grabbed the shower curtain which crashed down with me as I fell face forward, smacking my forehead with a sickening thud against the closed toilet lid.  Ouch.  This seemed bad.  Was I dead?

After writhing in pain for some time, I stumbled out of the tub and looked at my face in the mirror.  You know those cartoons where someone gets hit on the head and a huge lump immediately appears?  Well guess what?  It really happens.  A large, red lump was swelling before my eyes right in the middle of my forehead.  Very attractive.  Oh yeah, and it really, really hurt.

It seemed serious.  Was I going to die?  What if I blacked out?  I was the only parent, the only one in charge.  What would happen to my kids?

Over the next few hours, my face sprouted annoying patches of jaundice yellow and festive black and blue circles around my eyes.  I looked like I’d been beaten.

Later, my sweet, sensitive son said, “Yeah I heard you fall.” 

“Well why didn’t you come check on me?” 

“I was tired.”

The Blob

It all started out so innocently, just a group of coworkers sitting around a large conference room table which served as our lunch break area.  An assortment of brown bags and lunch pails was strewn before us as we politely munched on sandwiches and discussed a variety of subjects. 

One 60ish gentleman was talking animatedly about something when he paused to blow his nose.  He honked noisily into his handkerchief, then wadded it in a ball, stuffed it in his pocket, and continued his speech, engaging eye contact with everyone around the room.  The rest of us sat there in frozen horror.  None of us knew what to do, for there, on the tip of the man’s rather large nose, was a perfectly round, large blob of something that had somehow missed his handkerchief. 

It was so large it couldn’t be missed, and seemed to take on a life of its own, bobbing up and down with every movement of the man’s head.  Clearly he thought he had our undivided attention, as we were all too stunned to move or look away, and he talked on and on for what seemed like an eternity.  I’m sure we all wanted to say something to stop this embarrassing display, but we were too shocked or revolted to do anything other than stare at the blob at the end of the man’s nose.  It was round and white and glistened in the sun shafting through the window.  I had no idea what the man was saying and could no longer focus on anything except the large, gelatinous blob dancing around the room.  Was the man still talking or had the blob taken over the conversation? I’m not sure, but this happened over 30 years ago and still sticks (ick) in my mind.

OLD RECORDS

A stack of old records in my office is a constant reminder of my dad and his music.    They are all perfectly preserved in their covers with colorful, bold pictures of the artists.  He loved big bands, classical, jazz, and Latin music. 

Dad was an accomplished trumpet player and even played with the Harry James Band a few times.  He was a member of the Reno Municipal Band and formed his own jazz group called the Dixie Cats.  On a typical evening at home,  Dad would flip through his collection, carefully stack several records on the hifi turntable, lift his trumpet out of its velvet case, and play soulfully along with the music.  Percy Faith’s Viva and Malaguena were particular favorites and this music stirs old memories, sights and smells.  Mom would be in the kitchen cooking dinner, sending wonderful aromas wafting my way and all seemed right with the world.

After the Christmas bustle, I treated myself to a record player so I could finally play these treasures of days long gone.  My sister was here for dinner and we both turned dreamy and nostalgic at the sounds of Harry James and Montovani.  

Miss you, Dad.

A Norco State of Mind

Photos by Peggy Jones

We had been hearing how horse friendly the town of Norco is (Horsetown USA) and wanted to check it out for ourselves, so we trailered there on a Friday afternoon.  First we rode in a residential area and were impressed with the wide bridle paths on every street.  The main street in town also has bridle paths on both sides and a special crosswalk button at rider’s height.  We decided to go shopping at Thrifty Horse which has a corral in the parking lot with hitching posts.  We tied up our horses and moseyed on in to shop. Our transportation remained surprisingly calm, switching their tails and standing contentedly, even with cars whizzing by on the street.

Next we rode to the Saddle Sore Saloon which also had a designated horse area.  It seemed like we had gone back a hundred years or so in time.  What a thrill to sit in a “saloon” with a Margarita, watching your horse look at you through the window!  

Flashback

I was driving down 9^th Avenue in Escondido the other day, when sirens screamed from behind and police cars screeched past me with lights flashing.  Up ahead, traffic slowed, narrowing into one lane, and I cursed myself for always being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  How did I always end up being stuck in bad traffic?  As I crept forward behind the line of cars, I was startled to see a plume of dark black smoke appear ahead on the left.  Oh no, that has to be a house fire, I thought with dread.  My body cringed instinctively as we drew near the catastrophe.  I tried to keep my eyes on the street while stealing glances out the side window as we approached the fire.  There it was, a nice two story house with a tile roof. Orange flames erupted furiously from the garage roof and I prayed they would contain the fire before the house burned too.  There was also a car in the driveway and I hoped they would move it before it exploded.  God bless, God bless, I whispered as I drove, concern flooding me for the owners of the house.  Hopefully nobody was hurt.  Did they know their house was on fire or were they away at work?  Suddenly a wave of sadness overwhelmed me and I began to sob.  I know all too well what it is like to lose your home and everything you own, and how life changing such a disaster can be.  God bless you, home owners, God bless. 

Split Stops

Definition:   Stopping for a picnic halfway through a horseback ride with a split sized bottle of Champagne.

Photo by Peggy Jones

Champagne Sister Peggy recently coined this phrase and I would like to enter it in our dictionary.  Seems appropriate as this has become a ritual.  We look for a bench somewhere along the way, preferably with a water view, where we can sit and enjoy a picnic.  There is a particular spot in the Grasslands that has become our favorite split stop spot.  A picnic table sits on a little knoll under a shady tree in front of a tranquil pond.  This has become our favorite restaurant because it’s outside, has a great view, and our horses can come along.  Fine dining at its best – granola bars and Champagne!  Carrots for the four legged ones.  Even our horses race toward this spot in anticipation.  It is so peaceful sitting in the sunshine, listening to the ducks splash and quack.  The horses take it all in with their big, soulful eyes as we clink our mini bottles together and toast the day.