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We were leaving again. We took some buses and trains, my mother deciding finally to head for the south of France, which was not yet occupied by the Germans. She decided on the city of Nice. In a big city, she said, a woman and a small child would be less noticed. Nice was occupied by the Italians. It was a mild occupation, without roundups. The Italian soldiers stood by in groups, watching people with a benevolent eye, smiling at pretty girls and children. We walked and walked until suddenly my mother stopped at a small sign in a window. The rental room had another door that opened onto a side street: we could come and go without being seen. My mother paid for three months in advance. Since she had a thick Yiddish accent, I spoke for my mother at all times. She pretended she had a throat problem. My mother was determined to survive. I had seen the men take away my father. I had seen my brother walk away and not return. Why did they all disappear, with the rest of our family? Do not worry. We will survive. One day, I came across a headline that I read to my mother: the Italians are leaving and the Nazis are on their way. My mother became agitated. She grabbed her bag and searched through it feverishly, tossing the contents on the table. She found a small piece of paper, told me to dress quickly, and then dragged me outside without waiting for me to finish dressing. She was like a woman possessed. I kept quiet and held her hand. We walked and walked. Then I saw the street we were looking for. My mother stopped in front of a building and pushed me against the door in front of her, as if to hide me. The door opened a crack. She and my mother spoke softly. It would be better not to talk at all. We are in grave danger. The priest will help us. I was stunned. Had I done something terrible? Was I such a bad girl that she wanted to get rid of me? She avoided looking at me. She did not speak to me again. The door opened, but I did not understand that my mother was leaving me here, in a strange red room with a man in a long robe. I turned to ask her to explain, but she was gone. Do you understand? You cannot tell your real name to anyone. You cannot tell where you were born and you cannot talk about your parents. Now repeat your new name and your birthplace. Repeat, please. I was born in Orange and my parents are dead. I am going to stay with my godparents. I was put with a farm family, working from 5 a. My body would not straighten up; I could barely walk. I was blue-eyed, fair-skinned, and blonde, while the other children were mostly dark and swarthy. The neighbor made some comments. In the middle of that night, she shook me awake and told me to get dressed. I obeyed, mute with fear. She pointed silently to the door. I opened it. Someone came out of a car and pulled me inside. A black iron gate opened, leading to a front door. I saw a very young woman dressed in a floor-length black robe, a white collar framing her face, brown piercing eyes, a pink complexion, and a generous mouth. Her hands were folded over a cross hanging from her neck. A radiant smile illuminated her face, her white teeth gleaming. Her fingers left the cross to stroke my face and brush the hair away from my forehead. She came closer and hugged me. I had not been touched by a kind person for so long that I had forgotten how it felt. I was swept up in a maelstrom of emotions. The bed felt hard, and I was afraid to sleep. She squeezed my hand. You have to do exactly as I tell you. We walked into the morning sunshine and approached a small house adjacent to the cloister with a white wall and a red brick roof. The house had a bright red door surrounded by sculpted columns, each with a stone sculpture of a face. I followed her inside. I was spellbound by the white interior and overwhelmed by the silence. There were white stone walls, black benches, and an altar with a gigantic cross hanging on the back wall between stained-glass windows. Mediterranean light streamed. Flowers had been placed everywhere. The heavy door closed behind us and I was suddenly convulsed by uncontrollable shaking. Where was I? Who were these women wearing long dresses? What would happen to me now? Would I never see my family again? I starting weeping. I folded my arms tightly around my body for comfort, and tried to understand what I was looking at. Later, I learned that they were cloistered. They never left the convent, and no one could approach them or talk to them. Suddenly, I heard singing. It came from the nuns behind the grille, their hands clasped across their chests, eyes closed in ecstasy. Beautiful sounds, unlike anything I had ever heard before. Profoundly moving. Why are you all wearing long dresses and naked feet? When it was over, I left with Sister Andrea. Sister Andrea and a handful of sisters, however, had taken different vows, she explained. They were allowed to leave the premises for errands and they could talk. They brought food to the 40 cloistered nuns and left it on their doorstep, and they also cooked for the 10 orphans and the three or four children in hiding. What helped me was my Aryan appearance. And, of course, I was very obedient. Sister Andrea had a little sister whom she loved very much, she told me. A tiny girl with blond hair and a sunny disposition; she had not seen her since she entered the convent. Sister Andrea became very attached to me. She had told me I could stay by her side all the time, always. The other sisters were relieved to have her take complete charge of one of the hidden children. They were all aware of the dangers, yet they participated in the risk wholeheartedly. I loved the grounds inside the walls of the convent: the pretty flowers, the trees, and especially a palm tree which became my friend. I sat at its feet a lot, my back against its rugged skin. I talked to it. I told it stories about the family I once had. I felt better after our conversations. Even on rainy days, I sat there, the raindrops hanging from the branches resembling tears on eyelashes. I was not friendly with the other children. I was afraid someone would start talking and I would reveal something. I could have stayed there the whole day just looking at them. I learned my catechism and that Jesus Christ was the son of God who had died for our sins. I learned all the prayers by rote. I was always hungry. We ate dry bread and a bowl of watered-down coffee mixed with milk. I ate the bread slowly in a vast room with a high ceiling and large windows through which the sun streamed. On the wall was the man. What I recall most is the constant pealing of the bells, calling the sisters to different prayers. There were nine daily prayers, two extra prayers on Friday, and on Thursdays prayer until midnight. There were eight prayers on Saturday and seven on Sunday. It was a strict schedule and it provided a sense of peace. I appreciated the regularity of every day. Sister Andrea was my mother, my father, and my brother. She asked me to pray, but she never pressured me. The sisters rustled through the corridors, sailing in their dark robes like boats on the sea. I loved the bells marking day and night. The routine was a lifeline after years of running and hiding. The pageantry enthralled me. Young women, probably not older than 18, took their vows, their parents invited to witness their marriage to God. The altar would be so white with flowers that it was almost blinding. The veil was taken off and her beautiful hair was cut, her locks falling on the floor. Then she would lay on the marble floor, arms spread out like butterflies on a piece of cardboard, unable to fly away. The family would cry softly. This would be the last time they would see her. I wanted so badly to be that undefiled girl prostrated on the floor, giving my young life away to the man on the cross. I liked that the bride became anonymous, leaving the chapel, surrounded by the two sisters and a new identity. This is what I wanted. And I wanted the prayer book that the novice got, with its soft leather cover, a red silk string holding the pages and the gleaming gold seal on three sides. All day, I followed Sister Andrea. I especially loved it when the Clarisses, kneeling behind the iron black grille, started to sing. I never saw them except then. They were like ghosts, motionless, transfixed, then filing out in long processions. They never left the cloister except when they died and had to be buried in a cemetery. Sister Andrea watched me with a smile. I was not permitted to take communion, so I watched the nuns swallow the white wafer with envy. I was 10 now. I would watch Sister Andrea in her habit, her hands folded perfectly, merged with her prayers. She had no self; she was all spirit. I knew that deep down Sister Andrea hoped I would become like her. That if no one claimed me, I would stay, be baptized, take my vows. Still, I was conflicted: on the one hand, I wanted to return to my family; on the other, I was so loved here. I was in the convent and I was happy. When the Nazis came in their marching boots, I pressed myself against the wall, not moving, not looking at Sister Andrea. She touched me gently on the shoulder, but I pulled back. I knew instinctively that my life in the convent was over. Sister Andrea prepared my bag. I really had almost nothing but the clothes on my back. The one thing I had become attached to were the white rosary beads with the cross that Sister Andrea had given me when I first arrived at the convent. Remember your new name, where you were born, and that your parents are dead. But I really did not know who I was anymore. I had already forgotten how to speak Yiddish, which I had spoken fluently at home with my family. Sister Andrea tried to talk with me, but I did not respond. I was angry. I felt betrayed. She had lied to me. There were more hiding places, but eventually, at a train station, a woman in charge stood on a box. She started calling out names, and with each name a parent moved up in front, and a child moved forward, too. Like a ballet that was silent. The woman calling names reached the last sheet of paper. I had not heard my name. My throat constricted. I only knew one name: Ginette Henry. I had forgotten Greta Herensztat. They called again and again: Greta Herensztat. Greta Herensztat. Suddenly a young man with jet black hair came flying through the crowd, shouting the name over and over. He lifted me in the air. I am your brother Bernard. Look here, girl, this is your mother. Looking at my brother and mother, I slowly realized that, yes, I was not alone in the world: I belonged to someone. And I was someone. In , I went back to visit the convent with my daughter and grand-daughter, keeping the promise I had made to Sister Andrea in Ginette Henry? I did not remember her. I was barely 11 when I left the convent, and she must have been 16 or Like a bird, she flew in my direction. I stood up and she took hold of my hands, and, standing on the tips of her toes, pulled me down to her level and gave me many kisses. Suddenly there was a flurry of long robes and veils, and the Mother Superior came in with all the nuns, twittering like birds. Sister Marie Antoine told me that Sister Andrea had died very young. She said Sister Andrea had always talked about me. She was sure that I would return one day because I had made a promise. A promise to return to the only place where I had known happiness in the midst of a war so violent, a war against children. Greta Herensztat was born in Paris in to a Jewish family that had escaped pogroms in Poland. In , she emigrated to the United States with her husband and daughter. Her memoir, Rabbits in the Fields of Strangers , is available at judjulgin yahoo. Confronting generational tensions to build a badass Jewish feminist future. What a breast cancer previvor has to do. This samovar serves only stories. Finding serenity in a convent. My Bukharian mother sold herself into marriage. Summer fiction. Sign up now for a weekly batch of Jewish feminist essays, news, events--and incredible stories and poems from 40 years of Lilith. Why was my mother crying? We were back on the street, the young woman pointing at another door. My mother knocked. You will go into hiding in a convent. We will forget all of this. The priest looked at me. I never said goodbye to the farmer or his wife. Food had been scarce on my long journey. I was so famished that I almost choked on the bread. A moon ray shone through the window. Above the bed, I saw a cross with a man nailed to it. What was the meaning of it? Who was this man? Sister Andrea saw my anguish. She understood. I sat in a trance. Sister Andrea sat next to me, her hand on my shoulder. I thought I might be safe here. No one wanted me. I must be a bad girl, I thought again, if no one wanted me. What would happen to them? My name was Greta Herensztat. Sister Marie Antoine introduced my granddaughter, Hannah-Charlotte, to all the other nuns. Prev Next. Share This. This Article Appeared In. Summer Confronting generational tensions to build a badass Jewish feminist future. Also in this issue Summer Fiction Summer Close this module. Need More Lilith? Email Enter your email address.

Hidden Child: When Caritas Saved a Jewish Girl

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I read this quote recently and it really got me thinking, have I lived? In the office last week Andy asked me how old I was and it took me a while to work it out. I had only celebrated my birthday a couple of months ago but I could not recall how old I was. Does it matter these days? I did some quick maths and worked out I was The world is so vast and the list of activities and sights to see is endless. With this in mind I decided to write myself a bucket list. Intrigued by what I was undertaking, my girlfriend, Rachael, also took a wander into the land of dreams and she too decided to make a list of her own. We decided to write it completely independently and would then compare the results afterwards. After what seemed like 10 minutes but in reality was probably closer to a couple of hours we each had a long and satisfying list of hopes and visions. We had a couple of matches but, by and large, our selections were very personal to us and unique. What really stood out to me though was how many of these activities could be experienced in a ski resort on an annual ski holiday. Why is that? We all know that they are there to serve an operational purpose like airlifting an unfortunate casualty from a remote location, but they are also very much utilised for their recreational benefits. A dream of mine has always been to go heli-skiing. My love for skiing is as much about the peace and tranquillity of getting away from the city and into areas of staggering beauty and utter breathlessness as it is about the thrill of skiing itself. To soar up and see this panorama from the air just seems like such a magical experience and one I am determined to fulfil sooner rather than later. The flight is just the start of the adventure though. The best part of a snowstorm or a white out day is knowing that when the storm has passed you will be left with fresh powder to go and attack and enjoy. Heli-skiing allows you this opportunity but without the need to rely on inclement weather conditions. To pitch up on the side of a deserted mountain with only a chilling wind for company and mile after mile of untouched snowfields covering the horizon sounds like my idea of heaven. For the best heli-skiing opportunities you are best heading over to North America. In North America, a helicopter can drop you just about anywhere you fancy where you can ski between the trees down a vertical drop off a mountain. In Europe, the sport has much tighter controls and fewer drop points but it still offers the thrill of going off the usual beaten track. They can be as much a part of the holiday as the skiing itself. This is something that we can help you arrange in advance. There was something about the film that just made me smile. Was it the lucky egg or just the fact it was loosely based on a true story? Whatever it was, it made me determined to take to the ice track myself and experience bobsleighing. I was lucky enough to experience this whilst working in Austria. The Olympiaworld run in Igls hosted the Olympic bobsleigh in and and today just about anybody can give it a go. The thrill and ecstasy of hurtling down an ice track at speeds approaching 75mph means even the most extreme of adrenaline junkie will find their heart pounding. The track is just a short distance from the city of Innsbruck meaning it can be accessed from most of the Austrian ski resorts that we offer. If you are staying in France then La Plagne was the host venue for the Albertville Winter Olympic bobsleigh competition and also offers you the chance to enjoy this exhilarating sport. The thrill of floating in mid air and soaring like a bird is always difficult to describe. What neither of us have experienced is the combination of paragliding and skiing which has the typically extreme name of Speed Riding. Speed Riding is very different to its Paragliding cousin. The aim in paragliding is usually to ride the thermals to try and get as high as possible to make the flight last as long as possible, Speed Riding is almost the complete opposite. After leaving the mountain you sweep down as close to the snow as possible, the closer the better, and with your skis on you skim the snow at great speed. Most resorts these days offer paragliding, but Speed Riding is a little more specialist and is usually undertaken more by solo professionals than tandem skiers, but there are still destinations where you can enjoy this opportunity in tandem with an experienced speed rider. Resorts where you can tandem Speed Ride are quite few and far between, but Grindelwald in Switzerland is one such place. A great location to experience the thrill of Paragliding is the French ski resort of Chamonix. As Chamonix sits in a fantastic location at the foot of Mont Blanc and borders both Italy and Switzerland it means that you can experience fantastic views and truly appreciate the sheer beauty of the landscape beneath you. To read more on Speed Riding, check out our previous blog post. Luxury is a hard word to define as it has personal meanings to the individual concerned. To Rachael the idea of luxury is a dream she has always wanted to indulge in, relaxing in a chalet with a hot tub whilst enjoying Champagne with just the moon and stars lighting the night sky. Most of us will have had a tough day on the slopes, covering as much distance as possible, taking in as many slopes as the clock will allow, and come the end of the day all you want to do is kick back, relax and soak those aching bones. Staying in a chalet with a hot tub is by far the best way of achieving this. Whilst it is bitterly cold outside the body is warm, cosy and relaxed. Snowflakes fall gracefully on the only skin left exposed to the elements. As you look around taking in the white panorama, some of you will feel that this really can be defined as luxury. Ski In Luxury offer a number of luxury chalets with hot tubs , but there is one that really stands out to me. The Backstage Chalet in the Swiss resort of Zermatt has a hot tub right in the heart of the chalet, nestled by the roaring fire. At the touch of a button the panorama changes completely as the hot tub is hydraulically lifted through the roof of the chalet allowing you to experience the hot tub both indoor and out. Views of the warm fireplace are swapped for the magnificence of the Matterhorn at the touch of a button. At 28 I am by no means old and will hopefully have many years left to experience the un-ticked activities on my list. What I will bear in mind though is how many of these great activities I can experience the next time I don the woolly hat. Resorts offer so much more than just skiing and snowboarding these days. They offer us the opportunity to fulfil our dreams. I would love to hear about them. Get in touch to share what you have already been lucky enough to experience, or what you have on your agenda for your next holiday. Let me know on the Ski In Luxury Facebook page. Blue Skies Lifestyle Ltd, established in , is an online luxury ski holiday agent that specialises in finding clients the perfect luxury ski chalet in France, Switzerland, Austria and Italy. We feature an extensive portfolio of luxury chalet accommodation and luxury ski hotels that are ideal for group and family luxury ski holidays. Ski Resorts. View All. Brunico Cortina. Luxury Chalets. Peak Season Holiday Weeks. Luxury Chalet Facilities. Group Luxury Ski Trips. Popular Mountain Holidays. Seasonal Chalet Rentals. Special Offers. Ski Blog.

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