When I learned about the Holocaust

I was in sixth grade the first time I heard about the Holocaust. Until then, my life as a child was pretty typical and, typical of the young in general, I figured every other kid lived as happily and securely as I did.

Starting middle school was an eye-opener in and of itself. But when our World History teacher began talking about the various events that made up WWII, I was in for a shock. Anti-semitism? New to me. Hitler? Work camps? Extermination of 6 million people? Was my teacher kidding? What WAS this all about really?

In my spare time as an aide in the school's library I combed the shelves of books on the war, checking out and reading literally everything there was to be read about the Holocaust. I just knew I could understand it all if only I read the right thing(s).

The book "I Never Saw Another Butterfly" is a collection of poems and artwork by children of the Terezin concentration camp where many Jewish intellectuals and artists were sent. Inmates were encouraged to be creative, to write, to play music, in spite of the terrible fate that would await the majority.

When I read "Butterfly" a big light bulb came on in my head and for the first time I found myself weeping, sobbing out loud as I turned each page. These were children just like me! And they suffered and died just because they were Jewish!

I asked my mother to explain this and she could not. So I asked my father, and he could not. Then I asked the school librarian and she could not.

And finally, like any child who is repeatedly told "I don't know," or "I can't help you," I quit asking, and all those questions rattled around unanswered for many years.

It wasn't until I was married and went with my husband to tour the Holocaust Museum of Houston that I realized I still carried those unanswered questions. Only now, with years of life under my belt, I knew there was nothing that would explain to my satisfaction what happened so long ago.

The day we toured the museum, an elderly man was sitting at the front desk. I figured he was some sort of volunteer or employee. It wasn't until we got ready to leave and he thanked us for coming that I noticed the number tattooed on his arm.


And now, here's the poem, "I Never Saw Another Butterfly" by Pavel Friedmann:

"The Butterfly"

The last, the very last,
So richly, brightly, dazzlingly yellow.
Perhaps if the sun's tears would sing
against a white stone. . . .
Such, such a yellow
Is carried lightly 'way up high.
It went away I'm sure because it wished to
kiss the world good-bye.
For seven weeks I've lived in here,
Penned up inside this ghetto.
But I have found what I love here.
The dandelions call to me
And the white chestnut branches in the court.
Only I never saw another butterfly.
That butterfly was the last one.
Butterflies don't live in here,
in the ghetto.