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Books :: Memory Serves A local program invites Holocaust survivors to document the past from their point of view. The Memory Project by Liza Weisstuch
None of the participants wanted to present their personal history with a gloss of valor or martyrdom. Many of the memoirists were uncomfortable being identified for this piece. Some preferred anonymity, others that only their first name be used. The goal of The Memory Project is to have survivors create their legacy by documenting the past. Some were urged by others to attend, others welcomed the chance to work within an environment structured to guide them in an undertaking they'd been intending to tackle for decades. One woman, for instance, came in part because her grandson made her a book -- its binding sewn with dental floss -- to encourage her to record her story. Another woman came with a rough manuscript of her experience. The project -- which was launched at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington D.C., in 2002, but now takes place in cities nationwide-- was developed for survivors who volunteered at the museum and wanted to share their memories but found public speaking difficult. There's a host organization for The Memory Project in each city. In Boston it is Facing History and Ourselves, an educational and professional development organization that trains students to examine racism through the lessons of the Holocaust and other genocides. But sharing memories in writing isn't easy: translating memories and stories of fear, heroism, miracles, horror and daily life into prose poses enormous challenges. First, the authors must recall childhoods in Europe that were turned inside out by emotionally and physically excruciating nightmares; second, they must filter out the identities molded by decades since they came to America and started over. Detailing events one hasn't thought of or spoken about in 60 years packs an emotional wallop. Indeed, the sessions during which participants write for about 40 minutes, then read the pieces aloud and exchange comments and critiques, are emotionally intense. Participants engage in exercises to flex their different writer-ly muscles. Sometimes they write in stream-of-consciousness format based on a prompt, like "I remember," and record each recollection until a new one comes to mind. Sometimes they write an anecdote based on a significant object. In one exercise, they wrote letters. In another, they wrote about an event in their life from a third person perspective. Many participants address wartime experiences, but they are not restricted to those years. Childhood, post-war, even the previous day: it's all fair game. One woman, a regular attendee who was born in Germany then went to Belgium and settled in France before coming to the U.S., grappled with the notion commonly referred to as "Holocaust fatigue." Why would anyone, she wondered, take interest in episodes from her life when there are already so many books and films already out there for popular consumption? Wasn't the end result going to be exploitation, by authors or filmmakers, eager to produce money-making products out of Holocaust stories? My response to that fear, and no doubt one reason behind The Memory Project, is that if survivors have a desire to tell their stories, there will be a complementary need for others to hear it. Also, there is the value of writing as an act of personal liberation, suggested by Franz Kafka's famous observation: "Writing is the ax that breaks the frozen sea within." Many sessions spin into dynamic discussions over how much to add or subtract from memories of the experience. How many details have been lost? How many fabricated over the years? Can you grant yourself the liberty of filling in the blanks and fictionalize where you don't remember? According to Alan Brown, an exceptionally practical man from Hungary who became a Harvard-trained economist after the war, whatever you record is "part of the frozen sea." Indeed, not everyone arrived with all their "material" easily accessible. The differences in how individuals began to remember the past raised discussions about what humans deliberately or often unintentionally repress. Colette, for instance, writes in stark, pointed, simplistic prose -- a fact that frustrated her until she came to realize that her narrative voice is a reflection of the way she generally communicates. She confessed to being envious of those who could write rich details of scents, sensations, and objects. But she couldn't remember much of her childhood. "It's all blacked out," Colette said. Zezette Larson, who's been involved with Facing History for 29 years, responded somberly, "Consider yourself lucky. I remember all the time." Another participant, Janet Applefield, who was born in Krakow and spent the war years in hiding, told me what opened the floodgates for her. "It was all so unreal until I went back to Poland the first time. I've been there three times and each time it's terribly different. The first time was 1984 and I didn't want to have a good time. I wanted to feel pain. The second time I didn't want to go back. I want to see family who saved me, but not Auschwitz. My father said, 'Write everything down.' I never did. I suppose I was rebelling."
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