My Mother’s War
Survival and breaking cycles.
My Mom was born in 1925 in Kiev, Ukraine. She was born Tamara Litvin to Paul and Lydia Litvin. She remembers little about her early childhood. It’s sad, however, the negative things usually do stand out as those first memories. Her first memory is that of her father being taken by Stalin’s secret police. She was around the age of seven.
She tells a story of men coming to their home and taking my grandfather. He was a civil engineer in Kiev and well educated. “Intelligentsia” they called those educated then and there. They told my Grandmother he would be questioned and released in a few days. They searched the house and found papers. He was allegedly involved in a coup against Stalin.
They waited for days, and still no word. My Grandmother took my Mother to headquarters to inquire on his whereabouts. They informed her that he would be released soon and turned her away. My Mother remembers looking up and seeing her Father wave at them from one of the windows. That was the last time my Mother would ever see her Father.
The next time my Grandmother and my Mother went to speak with the men, they informed her he had been “liquidated”. They gave my Grandmother items of clothing, which were blood soaked and filled with bullet holes. My Mother and Grandmother were now considered “undesirables”. My Grandmother knew that it was best to leave Kiev. They left the city and went to live in a refugee camp in the woods.
They stayed there for a time, and my Mother would go and play in the woods to pass the time. One day while wandering there, she came upon a German soldier. My Mother spoke five languages, German being one of those languages. The soldier told my Mother he was lost and needed help. My Mother was smart enough to think that this could be an out for them. She told the soldier that she would tell him how to get out, but he must take her, her Mother, and her Uncle out of Kiev and to a safe place. He took them to some railroad tracks and told them to wait for the train. They waited and the train never showed. They moved on, only to find later, that the train would have taken them to a prison camp.
They traveled on, moving when they could, being hungry and cold, scared and tired. I cannot imagine the horrible sights at the time. Trails of death, mass graves and bombs falling from the sky all around you. Things no human being should ever have to witness, much less a child. Living in horrible fear, that any moment, might be your last. Seeing death and destruction all along the way.
They finally made it back to Poland, where my Grandparents were originally from. For some strange reason their journey was leading them, of all places, to Nazi Germany. There was no news, no televisions for them to get word about anything. I am sure they were doing what they thought was best at the time.
Once again, their paths led them to another German soldier. This time with a tank. My Mother and Grandmother asked him if there was any possible way he could take them across borders to Germany. He agreed. I have no idea why this man agreed to help them, but he did. He took them to the German border, and my Mother and Grandmother lived there to survive World War II and Nazi Germany. The things they must have endured. Things were no better, and maybe worse there. Once again, the bombings, the mass graves. The Jewish friends begging my Mother to hide them. The sadness all around them.
My Mother told me stories of sleeping on a single bed with my Grandmother, barely being able to turn or move. Barely getting any good sleep. She talked of huge rats running around in the room as they slept, and the high pitched scream and explosions of bombs falling all around them. She talked of long breadlines in which they stood for hours to get one loaf of bread. At times they would get right to the end, only to be turned away.
These stories gave me nightmares as a child. I was always horrified that someone would knock on our door in the middle of the night, and come get my brother and I and take my parents. I was horrified at her stories, and never wanted to believe them. But history doesn’t lie, and now I know. These stories are true. They may be jumbled about in my Mothers mind at times, but how wouldn’t they be? How could you keep track of such horror? How could you think of anything more than survival?
I remember a horrible coincidence we had. I asked my Mother to go to the museum one day with my son and myself. When we first came in there was an Anne Frank display in the gift shop. I thought nothing of it, but my Mother began talking about her, and about her own life. Once we came upon the second floor, we walked into a Holocaust exhibit. We barely got through the exhibit, when my Mother lost control of her emotions and wanted to leave, crying hysterically. I have never seen her so upset. The pictures of the survivors, their stories and their legacy haunted her so much, she wanted to collapse. We left immediately. I felt so bad. I had no idea this exhibit was going on.
I believe it was there because it needed to be. Not for her, but for me. All during my childhood, we were poor. My clothes always came from second hand stores, my Mom had to work two jobs sometimes to take care of us. We never got the same things that other children had. My Mom would send us to play outside if it was nice, and tell us to get out of the house. We were allowed an hour of television a day, and we had to finish all the food on our plate at dinner, or not leave the table. We suffered a lot of emotional abuse and neglect. She constantly told us we were spoiled. We had a tough childhood of our own. Her hysterical and sometimes sick rantings took a toll on me in many ways. I was the oldest in the house at the time. I was her scapegoat. I made it through, and it made me a stronger person. My own life story is still no comparison to my Mothers.
When things seem tough for me now, I remember my Mother, and her war. Her own personal HELL. I have no other way of thinking about it. It’s just too hard to even fathom. Everyone who has made it through a war deserves some sort of medal. It’s just not right. There are so many stories she has, I cannot begin to tell them here. It would take too long. They are all sad and hurtful. They are all very tragic. It brought me to pity my Mom.
This is just one more reason for me to celebrate my own life. Did it suck at times? You bet it did. With tragedy in any life, comes cycles. Cycles of neglect and abuse. Cycles of mental illness and self -deprecation. Cycles only we can break. But when we see them for what they are, we can release them and move on. My Mother never did that. She never got help for any of this. It would have done her great good to do so, but she just never believed in it.
She wore her mental illness as a badge. She still does. She’s a wonderful person, but she still lives in fear. I cannot say that I blame her. She doesn’t know any better. She thinks she is still at war within herself. How sad this way of thinking must be.
I do not judge her anymore. We all go through things in our childhood. Some people skip through life with no trauma or hurts. Lucky you! But some of us don’t. We have to heal. We have to choose to heal. We have to go to years of therapy to find out that we were never the sick ones. Never the bad ones. It hurts,it takes a lot of time, but it’s the necessary evil with victims of childhood abuse and neglect.
I think of those stories all the time. I look at my Mother now, and I see a strong old woman. She is still hanging on to some of this, but not nearly as bad as when I was younger. I also look at her as someone I barely know. I look at her as my example. She has taught me what it is to be a survivor in so many ways. I choose to look at her in this light now. I love her, but I do NOT want to be like her.We have that choice, you know.
Me? I broke my cycle of abuse and neglect. I survived them with flying colors. I broke free of my dysfunctional family for a time. I went through years of therapy. I finally learned that this cycle could be broken. I chose to be around my own family. My chosen family of friends and sane, loving people.
Do I lay blame on my parents for all my abuse? No. I once did, but I realized, only I am in charge of my adult child now. I took her in my arms and rocked her back to sanity. I taught her to forgive, and to love. I once and for all gave her a safe haven. I finally told her, it wasn’t her fault, she was merely a child. She is now in a safe place.
She stopped being angry and hurt. She raised her own child in love and safety. She has discovered true love, security, and a loving family of her own. What does she do now? How do I take care of her?
Now…I simply love her.
