In the mid seventies, Holocaust survivors were very much alive and engaged in rebuilding their lives, but the past was not so distant. This is inspired by a true story.



Marc Chagall's Wedding   (a painting)   1910  





We jumped into the car and drove out of the cornfields.

Heading south we hit the city and keep driving until,

We reached the place.

We parked the car and headed over to the door.

A girl answered it. I remember nothing about her.

We walked into the small house and the sound was distinct.

The record player was on and a Yiddish song was playing.

I could not understand it but it spoke to me.

I wanted to know about it. Who was playing it?

It was her mother, laying on the couch.

I had not seen her there.

She was in a bathrobe, it was late in the day.

She did not see us, she did not hear us.

We were right there.

Her daughter hustled us out of the front room.

She whispered and we walked.

Soon we left the way we came in.

Before that she told us.

It was the music.

Every weekend her mother traveled back in time.

Some thirty years before to her country.

The one which expelled her like so much spoiled food.

The same one which consumed her family, her loves, her village,

Her way of life.

The end of her life was all she knew.

That it would end.

Until that time, she lived in the past.

Every seven days she went back via music.

She closed her mind to everything else and went back.

There was music, there was laughter. There were her brothers.

She ate the food prepared by love. She drank the kosher wine.

She sat on the chair which was hoisted high above.

At her own wedding, she was.

Her husband no shy bridegroom, but a deep love.

He was a fighter, a provider, a mensch.

They would survive, they married to seal the promise.

Life would get better, it would go on.

Somehow it went on, but he was lost.

She never knew what happened.

If she did not have her daughter,

She would think it was all a dream.

It was a dream after all. This was not their daughter.

This was her daughter, from someone else.

She just wanted to finish the wedding party.

Just let her finish.

But it was interrupted. Her life was interrupted.

So she traveled back every seven days to try and finish it.

But she could only get to the bad part and then it was time to

Wake up again.


Copyright 2010 SheilaTGTG55

Views: 331

Comment by David McClain on September 27, 2012 at 1:54pm

Man's ability to do evil is only exceeded by man's ability to somehow overcome that evil and live on. This was a powerful piece.

Comment by tr ig on September 27, 2012 at 5:04pm

Hi Sheila and wow.. 

 . . the music every seven days. Music as a memory tool. I get that. Sense of smell, maybe even a bigger memory key. I could smell the food prepared with love.. Watched the whole video. See the worn keys on that accordion? The fiddle. Absolutely priceless Sheila

Comment by Kathy Knechtges on September 27, 2012 at 7:57pm

very touching

Comment by Joan H on September 28, 2012 at 4:46am

Wonderful piece, Sheila. 

Comment by Sheila Luecht on September 30, 2012 at 7:07am

David: Thank you. I agree. I remember this moment very deeply, walking into the house, the music. It had a big effect on me.

Tr ig: Thanks for reading. Yes, music and smell. What a combination to stir us and our memories. Life is a composition of all of these things, especially music for me.

Kathy: Thanks for reading.

Joan: Thank you for reading. I am attached to some of these memories very strongly.

Comment by Oryoki Bowl on September 30, 2012 at 9:52am

I imagine this is more real than fiction for many survivors of the Holocaust and the War.  We were just at the Resistance Museum in Copenhagen, and I hadn't been before.  Although few were killed, at the end of the exhibit were some letters written home by the prisoners before they would be executed.  Always to family, how much love, which things to give to the young, thanks for everything.  It was really only then that the grief hit me.  I can't imagine how horrible it must be for those who have real memories.   

Comment by Sheila Luecht on October 1, 2012 at 2:38pm

Oryoki: Having met several survivors and some in very personal settings, I have been personally overwhelmed with their grief. It is a very real experience and as you describe your moment of how that grief hit you, I had similar a similar experience in a gas chamber in Mauthausen in 1976.

Comment by koshersalaami on October 2, 2012 at 7:33am

Very good story. I picture the second husband.

You probably know there's a recording with pieces of this session, In The Fiddler's House.

I play in a klezmer band. I used to play with a pickup klezmer band in the Baltimre/Washington area on piano close to twenty years ago. The one I'm in now a couple of states to the South has a slight bluegrass flavor because of the instrumentation: no brass, no drums, prominent mandolin. In this one I play melodica.

Comment by koshersalaami on October 2, 2012 at 8:08am

Lezlie told me this site would do something that I just have to try:

a photo of the instrument referenced above. Most aren't wooden and the mouthpiece is something I juryrigged to enable me to see the keyboard while being able to maintain tonguing articulation for repeated notes and chords, courtesy of Home Depot and Lowe's.

Comment by Sheila Luecht on October 2, 2012 at 9:48am

How cool is that? One day should put the sound on a post. There is something about that music that feeds my soul. Seriously. I first heard it when I was in my twenties, yet it was familiar to me. I appreciate it. Music can have a way of completing someone. I find this kind of sound completing.


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