Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Max Herzel: Helping the World See

In honor of last week's Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day), 5771, I'd like to introduce you to Max Herzel of Birmingham. He is a Holocaust survivor who was liberated 66 years ago, and is one of 20 survivors featured in Darkness into Life: Alabama's Holocaust Survivors Through Photography and Art.

Max shared his story with me one evening at his inviting home on a shady street in Homewood. It's a story he's told hundreds of times, but his deep emotion drew me in and made me feel he was sharing his amazing story of survival only to me.

Born in Antwerp, Belgium, in 1930, his father, Oscar, was a diamond cutter, and his mother, Nachama, a seamstress. Ten-year-old Max’s journey through one of history’s darkest periods began when Belgium was invaded by the Germans on May 10, 1940.

"The city was awakened to the roar of airplanes flying across the sky," he recalled. "By Saturday evening, my parents decided to leave the city, and we nervously waited for sundown. We locked the house and proceeded to the main railroad station to travel to Brussels. Once there, we planned to join my father’s youngest sister and her husband. We took with us more fear than possessions."

After traveling seven days and nights in a crowded boxcar, Max, his parents, and older brother, Harry, found refuge in Southern France.

"This was just the beginning of the longest and saddest journey of my life," he said.

He recalls this as the period when Jews were forced to wear a yellow Star of David outlined in black. In France, “Juif”, the French word for “Jew”, was written inside the star.

Yellow Star by Becky Seitel
For centuries, the Star of David has been a symbol of Jewish pride. But during World War II, Nazis used the star to segregate and terrorize the Jewish people.

“The German government’s policy of forcing Jews to wear a badge was a tactic aimed at isolating us from the rest of the population,” he explained. “It enabled the German government to identify, deprive, starve, and ultimately murder Jewish people.”

Inside concentration camps, triangular patches were used to identify prisoners. The patches included:
  • Jew—yellow
  • Gypsy—brown
  • Homosexual—pink
  • Asocial—black
  • Political prisoner—red
The Asocial category was the most diverse, including prostitutes, vagrants, murderers, thieves, lesbians, and those who violated laws prohibiting sexual intercourse between Aryans and Jews. The word “Blod” on a black triangle marked mentally retarded inmates. For Jewish offenders, triangles of two different colors were combined to create a six-pointed star, one triangle yellow to denote a Jew, the second triangle another color to denote the added offense.

Within a few weeks of the family's arrival in Southern France, the men were forced into labor battalions. Determined to arrange his family’s escape, Oscar used bribery to flee to Marseilles. He and Harry were ultimately caught by the French police in late 1942 and were sent to a work camp. Upon their release, Harry joined the French Underground and Oscar went into hiding.

"My mother became desperate and went down to the river attempting suicide by jumping off the bridge," Max says as you can literally see his memory take him back to late 1942. "She was taken to a local hospital and then transferred to St. Marie, a Catholic psychiatric hospital. I offer thanks to Dr. Pierre Doussinet, a righteous gentile, who kept her in the hospital after treatment. Had she been released, she would surely have been arrested by the French police and sent to a concentration camp."

Even though the punishment would be death, many Gentiles saved Jews during the Holocaust. They were people who decided to make a difference because it was the right thing to do.

Young Max and his family were aided during and after the war by Mrs. Decoux, a wealthy Parisian Gentile. Her first name has long been forgotten. When Max’s father could no longer hide in her basement, Mrs. Decoux helped him hide in the forest and brought him food until he was captured while attempting to escape to the Italian zone.

“My father wrote this letter to Madame Decoux,” Max says of the letter translated below. “It was censored, as you can see by the censorship stamp, so we’ve never been able to determine exactly where he was."

Letter From My Father by Becky Seitel
February 19, 1944

Dear Mrs. Decoux,

I am writing you a few words from Italy. I’m able to tell you that I’m in good health. I’m also hoping the same by you and by Mrs. Churbard. I don’t know exactly where my wife is at the present time, also Harry and Max. Be kind and transmit this letter. Do not worry about me. I have much hope we will see each other soon. I’m positive that with my friend Mazaloigne and the rest of my friends everything is well. Wishing everyone well. From a friend who is thinking often of you.
 

Oscar

"We later learned that he was captured and taken to Auschwitz, and then Buchenwald, where he died on February 26, 1945, approximately three months short of liberation. He was only 44. Also lost were his family of seven siblings and their children, as well as thirteen of my mother’s family."

All alone during this time, young Max was sent to a series of four orphanages. When these became too dangerous, an underground Jewish agency, OSE (Oeuvre de Secours aux Enfants) placed him on a remote farm in Sironne in the French Alps. Posing as a Catholic orphan, he worked for his food and lodging. After the Allies regained France in 1944, all the hidden children were gathered by the OSE in an effort to reunite them with their families.

"I was finally reunited with my mother and brother in Clermont-Ferrand where she had been living in the hospital. We learned that we were the only three survivors from the Salomon and Herzel families. We located my mother’s brother and sister in New York, and they sponsored my brother and me to come to America. We arrived on December 23, 1948. My mother joined us five years later."

The patriotic new American served four years in the U.S. Air Force, and in 1955, married Cecille Herman. The family was completed with the birth of two children, the ultimate gift to a young man who had lost so much family to the evil acts of Adolf Hitler.

Job opportunities brought Max to Birmingham where he was an executive with the Veterans Administration Medical Center. Today, he is an active member of the Alabama Holocaust Commission and the Birmingham Holocaust Education Center. He devotes countless hours each month sharing his story with junior and high school students throughout Alabama, keeping the history of the Holocaust alive, spreading the message of the death and destruction caused by hatred and bigotry.

Another passion is Lions Clubs International, the world’s largest service organization, recognized for its service to the blind and visually impaired. He is actively involved as a Lion and is District Governor of Alabama District 34-O. He was named a Melvin Jones Fellow, the Lions’ highest form of recognition for an individual’s dedication to humanitarian service in his community and in the world community.

Helping the World See by Becky Seitel
"I especially enjoy being a part of our project to recycle used eyeglasses,” says Max who helps collect glasses and delivers them to the recycling center to be sorted and sent on vision missions to Latin America.

The many pairs of glasses surrounding Max each day are a fraction of those that were stripped from Jews entering concentration camps and sent to “Aryan” Germans. Former First Lady Laura Bush, in a talk at the 10th Anniversary of the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C., recalled seeing a mountain of such glasses.

“What moved me the most were the thousands of eyeglasses, their lenses still smudged with tears and dirt," she said. "It struck me how vulnerable we are as humans, how many needed those glasses to see, and how many people living around the camps and around the world refused to see. We see today, we know what happened, and we will never forget.”

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Caro's blanket

Grandchildren. One of the greatest joys of life!

Together, my sister, Kittie, and I have seven: Hayden, Cade, Carly, Kynze, Addie Ruth, Levi, and Caroline. That's three for me, four for my sister. As usual, she's out in first place. But I've worked my way through the second-child syndrome. Really, I have.

Anyway, all of these beautiful children were welcomed into the world with a soft, warm, cuddly blanket made with love by their favorite Nana / Great Aunt. Except Sweet Caroline.

I tried. Really, really tried. I just couldn't seem to get her blanket to the end stage.

Until today. Today, I finished nine-month-old Caroline's blanket! 

But why did it take me so long? Why did the lover of all things crafty, Martha Stewarty, home-madey fail to have a blanket for this beautiful child when she born?

Caroline, last Thanksgiving, on a surrogate blanket.

I didn't mean for it to happen. I started the little princess a blanket almost as soon as I found out she would be joining us. I talked to her Mom, found out the style and color she wanted, and quickly dashed out to buy the yarn.

But somewhere along the way, I got delayed.

Maybe it was the back surgery that kicked my, uh, back.

Or, the subsequent surgery to correct complications of the back-kicking back surgery.

Maybe it was the scorching summer that cost me several months. No joke. I can't knit or crochet in the summer. The yarn stings my hands, my hands sweat, and then I get in a really hostile mood. Not from the stinging and sweating, but from the frustration that comes from the damp yarn moving too slowly through my hands.

Then, dang it, once the weather cooled, I realized I had a gaping hole in the middle of the blanket about 40 rows back. That's like 280 rows in dog rows. I'll admit I'm not very observant, but ouch...40 rows back? Ok, maybe there was a glass of wine involved, maybe not. I'm just saying....

So, I had to tink (knit spelled backward) or frog (rip it, rip it, rip it), or whatever you want to call it. The Nancy Drew in me determined that at some point I stopped in the middle of a row, and when I picked up the blanket again, resumed knitting in the wrong direction. If you're a knitter, you know this is very easy to do if you're not paying attention, or if there is a glass of wine involved. That little fiasco set me back about a month. Or so.

Arthritis tried to stop me, too. I won't give that a lot of space here, because that would acknowledge I'm old enough to have arthritis, and I'm not ready to go there.

But, today, after all the stops and starts, Caro has a blanket! A soft, warm, cuddly blanket. A taupe, basketweave blanket. A blanket filled with the love of her great-aunt, sprinkled with dripped coffee and Diet Mt. Dew, and dotted with skipped stitches. And if it had the gestational period of an elephant, hopefully she'll never know.

Because, after all, I did finish it before she learned to count!

Caro's blanket is just like her: a special, one-of-a-kind, gift of love.
Caro's basketweave blanket pattern:

Supplies: approximately 900 yards of worsted weight yarn; size 8 circular knitting needles (or size to obtain gauge)

Gauge: five stitches per inch

Finished size: 31" x 31" or as desired

Cast on 158 stitches.

Knit 10 rows.

Establish pattern:
Row 1: K7, pm, *P4, K4, repeat from * to last 7 seven stitches, pm, K7
Row 2 - 6: K to marker, *P4, K4, repeat from * to marker, K7
Row 7 - 12: K to marker, *K4, P4, repeat from * to marker, K7
Repeat rows 1 - 12 until blanket measures approximately 30 inches, or desired length, and after completing row 6 or 12

Knit 10 rows.

Bind off and weave in ends!

Happy knitting!

Monday, January 10, 2011

An Adventurer

In my continued series, Darkness into Life: Alabama's Holocaust Survivors Through Photography and Art, I'd like to introduce you to Stan Minkinow of Huntsville.

I met Stan one hot Saturday afternoon after a pleasant drive to Huntsville. The home he shares with his wife, Doris, is beautifully decorated with enchanting art. Stan is an avid art collector and can tell you exactly where on his worldly travels he lovingly purchased each piece. He is strikingly tall and has the posture that comes with being a life-long member of the Army. I was immediately drawn to hear the story of this Green Beret and retired Army Major.


In January 1942, when Stan was ten years old, he and his parents were forced to become residents of the Lodz Ghetto in Poland.

Approximately 160,000 Jews, more than a third of the city’s population, were forced into the ghetto, the second largest in the Polish-occupied territory. Barbed-wire fencing isolated the ghetto from the rest of the city. Using Jewish residents for forced labor, the Lodz Ghetto soon became a major Nazi production center. Living conditions were horrendous. Lack of running water and sewer systems, along with overcrowding, hard labor, and starvation, reduced the ghetto by more than 20 percent.

“Even before we were sent to the ghetto, I began to adapt,” he shares. “Jewish children weren’t allowed to attend school, so boredom and curiosity tempted me out onto the streets.” Those streets became his classroom where he witnessed the unusual becoming the ordinary. From carts carrying corpses to finely dressed people pocketing rotten potatoes, he watched as the daily events of his life changed.

“I stood on the street corner near my grandparents’ apartment and watched as Jews filed through the gate,” he recalls. “I saw young people, old people, some pushing baby carriages, some arriving on foot or by horse-drawn taxis, others getting out of fancy cars.” 

Inside the Lodz Ghetto, the living quarters for his family consisted of one room with a stove, one bed for his parents, and one couch where young Stan slept. Food was scarce; their main staple was yellow beets; even their bread was made from beets. The family considered it a feast when they were able to acquire horse meat. “At night I often thought, ‘I hope I wake up as a German tomorrow so that I will have enough to eat.’ ”

Stan and his parents bribed their way from the Lodz Ghetto to the Warsaw Ghetto. Less than a year later, his family made another daring escape, this time from the Warsaw Ghetto. Without even a suitcase, they approached the gate guarded by three policemen: one Jewish; one Polish; and the third, German. Stan’s father showed the German his passport, while his mother showed the Pole a booklet with cash inside. The family fled to the village of Radość, outside Warsaw, renting an apartment using their maid’s last name and living as Poles.

“If the Polish officer had been doing his job, he would have shot us,” he says.

After the Russians liberated Poland, Stan’s father was arrested for his involvement with the Polish government in exile. After a year, in yet another escape, Stan’s mother bribed a Polish guard to take her husband to Berlin. Stan recalls hearing gun shots as he and his mother were smuggled across the border sometime later. For a short time after the war, the family lived in a displaced persons camp in Berlin. Stan learned that his grandfather, Hein, had died at Auschwitz.

Not surprisingly, what started in the ghetto with a young boy’s curiosity and thirst for adventure played out in Stan’s life. In 1951, he saw a U.S. Army recruiting film in Munich. He enlisted and became a member of the elite, newly-created Special Forces, later becoming an American Cold Warrior and a Green Beret. He completed Officer Candidate School and was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant in the Infantry. A tour of duty in Korea was followed by two tours in Vietnam. Among his numerous medals are the Distinguished Flying Cross, Bronze Star, and the Air Medal. He retired as a Major in 1979.

“I am what you would call an adventurer,” he says with a smile.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Have I looked in my father's eyes

My father, Carl Barker
 
Deep, dark brown
More almond-shaped than any almond
Short lashes loosely-covered with saggy skin

Reading, always
Anything and everything
Day into night, sometimes into day again

Stories of rugged cowboys with guns and sweaty horses,
County, back-woods postal addresses
Political commentaries, Sunday color comics

Post-Herald
Birmingham News
Sports section first, forever and amen

Disease-invaded like an army
He fought them all with force
Passed away one night while praying that he'd continue to live

We learned what was possible
Through salty, hot tears
And smiled with happiness at the irony of his gift

Corneas, still healthy, searching for more
Traveled to someone unknown
So that they could see, they could read

Perhaps I, while on a journey to Montgomery or Mobile
Looked in my father's eyes
Though they were no longer almond-shaped and brown

They would have been reading
Anything, everything
Sports section first, forever and amen

Friday, December 17, 2010

The Daring Cooks December 2010 Challenge: Poach to Perfection!

Lately, I have been blogging about joining The Daring Kitchen, an-online community of cooks and bakers who are challenged each month to cook or bake something new and different. Everyone uses the same recipe and then posts their results, with narrative and photographs, on their blog.

Jenn and Jill have challenged The Daring Cooks to learn to perfect the technique of poaching an egg. They chose an Eggs Benedict recipe from Alton Brown, Oeufs en Meurette from Cooking with Wine by Anne Willan, and Homemade Sundried Tomato & Pine Nut Seitan Sausages (poached) courtesy of Trudy of Veggie num num.

I chose the Eggs Benedict recipe.

Surprisingly, poaching an egg was not very difficult technique-wise. It really is all about the timing and there are a few tricks that can help.

• Make sure to use the freshest eggs possible. Farm-fresh eggs will make for the best poached eggs.
• Adding a bit of vinegar to the water will help stabilize the eggs and cook the whites faster, and keeping your water just below boiling point (about 190F) will help keep the fragile eggs from rupturing. Also make sure to salt the poaching water well.
• The other main key to success is to crack your egg into a small bowl first, taking care not to break the yolk. Then it becomes easy to gently slide the entire egg into the water for the poaching process.
• A poached egg is done when the whites are fully cooked and the yolk has just started to solidify but is still runny when you cut it open – usually three minutes. It’s ok to go a little longer though depending on your desired firmness. 
• You can poach eggs ahead of time (about a day). Just immerse them in ice water after poaching, and then keep them in a bowl of water in the fridge. When you are ready to use them, place them in hot (not boiling) water until they are warmed through.

Here's what you'll need for Eggs Benedict:
4 eggs (size is your choice)
2 English muffins
4 slices of Canadian bacon (or plain bacon if you prefer)
Garnish
Splash of vinegar (for poaching)

The hollandaise sauce requires:
3 large egg yolks
1 teaspoon water
1/4 teaspoon sugar
12 tablespoons unsalted butter, chilled, and cut in small piecs
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
2 teaspoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
Pinch cayenne pepper (optional)

Directions:
1. Fill a medium saucepan halfway with water and bring to a simmer.
2. Cut the chilled butter into small pieces and set aside.
3. Whisk egg yolks and 1 teaspoon water in a mixing bowl large enough to sit on the saucepan without touching the water (or in top portion of a double boiler). Whisk for 1–2 minutes, until egg yolks lighten. Add the sugar and whisk 30 seconds more.
4. Place bowl on saucepan over simmering water and whisk steadily 3–5 minutes (it only took about 3 for me) until the yolks thicken to coat the back of a spoon.
5. Remove from heat (but let the water continue to simmer) and whisk in the butter, 1 piece at a time. Move the bowl to the pan again as needed to melt the butter, making sure to whisk constantly.
6. Once all the butter is incorporated, remove from heat and whisk in the salt, lemon juice, and cayenne pepper (if using).
7. Keep the hollandaise warm while you poach your eggs. Use a thermos, carafe, or bowl that you’ve preheated with warm water.
8. If the water simmering in your pan has gotten too low, add enough so that you have 2–3 inches of water and bring back to a simmer.
9. Add salt and a splash of vinegar (any kind will do).
10. Crack eggs directly into the very gently simmering water (or crack first into a bowl and gently drop into the water), making sure they’re separated. Cook for 3 minutes for a viscous but still runny yolk.
11. While waiting for the eggs, quickly fry the Canadian bacon and toast the English muffin.
12. Top each half of English muffin with a piece of bacon. Remove the eggs with a slotted spoon, draining well, and place on top of the bacon. Top with hollandaise and garnish, and enjoy!
Preparation time:
Eggs Benedict: 20 minutes

Equipment required:
Generally for poaching eggs you need:
• Large shallow pan
• Small bowl (for cracking eggs into)
• Large slotted spoon for lifting out poached eggs
• Timer

For Eggs Benedict:
• Double boiler (for the hollandaise)
• Alternatively a saucepan and heat proof mixing bowl that is large enough to sit on top
• Toaster or oven for toasting English muffins
• Frying pan for cooking bacon
• Thermos, carafe, or bowl (in which to keep the hollandaise warm)

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Homemade almond butter

In my slow, but steady, journey to a more natural diet, I began making almond butter a few months ago.

I was often reading of the benefits of this wonderful alternative to peanut butter. The Doctors, Jillian Michaels, and Denise Austin said I should switch from peanut butter to almond butter so I jumped in the car and headed to the grocery store. When I saw the price, I immediately had a heart attack and fell to the floor faster than Alan can fall asleep in the recliner. When the paramedics came, they recommended that I learn to make my own almond butter. After all, what good are the health benefits if I have a coronary every time I purchase a jar? Made perfect sense to me.

Before I share my recipe, here's what I have learned about almond butter:

It is a food paste made from almonds (duh). Almonds are high in monounsaturated fats, which are considered to be a healthier form of fat than saturated fat. Like other nut butters, almond butter retains the nutritional value of the almonds it comes from. It is rich in protein, calcium, iron, essential fatty acids, Vitamin E, magnesium, and it is a great source of fiber. Unfortunately, it is also higher in calories than many other nut butters, but to me, the heart-health benefits outweigh the extra calories.

The uses for almond butter are as varied as they are for peanut butter. It can be used like a spread, mixed into sauces and dressings, eaten plain, or used in desserts. The flavor is actually quite similar to peanut butter, with a faint hint of almonds.

There are a number of different styles of almond butter, starting with toasted or raw. Toasted almond butter has a richer flavor, but some people prefer the milder taste of raw almond butter. The smoothest and creamiest is made from almonds that have been blanched to remove their skins, and then finely ground. More chunky versions include almond skin, and are not ground as finely.

My version is made with toasted almonds, including the skin. I have made both toasted and raw, and personally prefer toasted.

You'll need a heavy-duty food processor (not the small, mini version) plus these ingredients:


2 cups toasted almonds (I toast in the toaster oven on 350 degrees for six minutes)
1/2 teaspoon salt (or to taste)
2 tablespoons olive oil (or to taste)
2 tablespoons brown sugar (or to taste)

Add the toasted almonds to the food processor and process until the nuts are finely chopped and begin to turn creamy (1-2 minutes). Add the salt, olive oil, and brown sugar and process until the following consistency:


That's it! Seriously!

Store the almond butter in your pantry or refrigerator. Just remember, there are no preservatives, so choose your storage method with that in mind. I have successfully pantry-stored almond butter for over a week with no problem.

I love almond butter on vanilla wafers! What's not to love?
Enjoy!

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Out of the dark

In my continued series, Darkness into Life: Alabama's Holocaust Survivors Through Photography and Art, meet Riva Hirch and read her compelling story:

When little girls are ten years old, they should be playing with dolls or hosting tea parties.

When Riva Hirsch was ten years old, she was hidden by nuns in a bunker near a convent in Ukraine. Fearful of frequent visits by the SS soldiers, the nuns were only able to visit the bunker every two or three days to leave food and water.
Out of the Dark by Becky Seitel
“When the door was cracked, it was my lifeline. The door separated me from the outside world. Inside that bunker, my life was lonely and frightening,” she recalls.

So fearful were the nuns of being discovered, they often simply cracked the door and hurriedly threw in the food.

“I was living among rats. If I was fast enough to get to the food before the rats ran away with it, I ate. If I was too slow, I was forced to exist on lice. They were all over me. At times, I could hardly open my eyes or my mouth. Swallowing lice helped keep me alive. They were my breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

Riva existed in this dark isolation for two years.

“I don’t know how time passed. Day was night and night was day. I felt more dead than alive. But even though I didn’t have even the simple basics of life like other little girls, I was safe.”

“In 1945, the door of the bunker opened wide. It had not been open more than a crack for two years.

“The nuns wrapped my frost-bitten feet in cloth and draped a blanket over my shoulders. I was suffering from malaria and typhus. My vision was impaired and my teeth had fallen out.

“A voice spoke in a language I didn’t understand. I later learned the Russian Army had liberated me.

“A hand pushed me forward. I moved toward the light, and with small footsteps, left the bunker in Tulchin, Ukraine.

“I was 12 years old.”

Like many children of the Holocaust, Riva was robbed of her childhood more than six decades ago by Adolph Hitler.

Today, she spends time working with the Elks Lodge of Mountain Brook to help promote the education and social development of Alabama’s youth.

Riva is well-known throughout the state for her dedication to raising money for the Elks Youth Camp. Located on Lake Martin in Tallassee, Alabama, the Elks Youth Camp offers activities and programs for young people between ages eight and thirteen. The youngsters receive an opportunity to experience different surroundings while learning valuable lessons about life. The programs are designed to help build character while showing how important it is to work with others.
Building Better Kids by Becky Seitel
In 2006, Riva single-handedly sold more Cadillac raffle tickets than any other Alabama member. This was just one of the reasons she was named Alabama Elk of the Year, becoming the first woman to receive that honor in the history of the Mountain Brook Lodge.

“Since we came to America in 1962, people have been wonderful to my husband and me,” Riva says. “Being a part of the Elks Association gives me an opportunity to give something back to this country by giving our youth such a great opportunity to build character… and have fun!”

Riva's husband, Aisic, is also a Holocaust survivor.

When she talks about the terror she experienced in Ukraine, he understands more than anyone. That’s because he experienced circumstances very similar to Riva’s, almost 1,000 miles away in Poland.

Riva and Aisic Hirsch married in Haifa in 1950, five years after they were liberated by Russian troops.

“We both went to Palestine after the war, and it was there that I met my beshert, a Yiddish word that means perfect match, soul mate, destiny,” Riva explains.
Beshert by Becky Seitel
“I was a police officer and often ate at a local café. Riva was a waitress there, just 16, and the most beautiful girl I had ever seen,” says Aisic.

Through the years, they’ve shared much more than the painful story of their past. They’ve shared many happy family times, always observing and celebrating their Jewish faith and heritage, a faith and heritage that made them a target of murder by the Nazis and then brought them together in Palestine.
Friday Night by Becky Seitel