Adieu: A Memoir of Holocaust Survival is Alfred J. Lakritz’s inspiring and moving memoir chronicling his painful separation from his parents, who relied on the kindness of strangers to save Alfred and his brother Herbert from the Nazis.
The boys were hidden in occupied France in homes, secluded farms, and even in Lourdes to avoid the enemy and their ever-present collaborators. Simche, their Orthodox Jewish father who secretly worked for the French Resistance, was arrested and deported to Nazi internment and death camps, where he was murdered after six months of hard labor. His devoted wife, Marjem, waited in vain for his return; her only clue was a postcard imploring his family to have courage and bidding them “adieu.”
Years later, the brothers were miraculously reunited with their mother, and they could finally emigrate to the United States to start a new life. Despite the tragedies he endured, Alfred never gave up hope. His life in America became the epitome of the American Dream.
A World War II survivor in his late eighties, Alfred recounts his extraordinary childhood to remind the world of the Holocaust in Adieu.
"This riveting, deeply engrossing memoir recounts in great detail Mr. Lakritz's traumatic experiences as a hidden child in France during the Nazi occupation and how these experiences shaped the rest of his long, well-lived life.”
“Exquisitely written, in language sometimes chillingly direct, sometimes deeply poetic, Adieu could be the story of any immigrant family—except that, in a single, heartbreaking moment, their fate took a tragic turn. Author Alfred Lakritz recounts his family history with courage and beauty. Lakritz’s recollections, along with the impressive amount of familial and historical research he has done, are nothing short of a gift to the rest of us. His writing of this book was an act of breathtaking strength, and we owe him our thanks.”
The woman from the aid agency said, “We found your mother.”
I was speechless for what seemed like hours but was only a few seconds of total astonishment.
What joy, what elation, what a miracle that my mother had been found! I cannot describe the great pain and joy I simultaneously felt in that moment. It had been what I had been praying for, hoping for, and imagining too many times to count.
I don’t know why it had taken the aid agency so long to locate my mother, especially since she had never left the Saint-Pardoux area. It’s possible that they kept us separated for both of our safety, and they kept my mother’s whereabouts a secret from us—and ours from her—so that we would not try to contact each other and thereby put ourselves in danger. The Germans could have intercepted our communication and tracked both of us down. I do know that the OSE gave my mother pictures of my brother and me to assure her that we were safe and well cared for. She kept those pictures with her throughout our separation and for the rest of her life. I now have them in safe keeping. One that was especially precious to her was the picture of Herbert and me in our sabots and berets—two mignon garçons français.
I didn’t ask if my father was alive. I was too overcome. I expected that I would hear about him from my mother once we were all reunited, wherever and whenever that would occur. All I wanted to know was when we would see our mother again.
After gathering our few possessions and saying goodbye and merci to our foster families and to the OSE volunteers, Herbert and I were given tickets and put on a train from Tarbes back to Marmande. The Germans had been evacuated from France and it was now safe for us to travel. Whether all the Germans had been rooted out was not assured. Some might have gone into hiding with the aid of those French who were still sympathetic to the Nazis.
I remember being on the train. I could hear the wheels turning on the tracks and with each turn I was coming closer and closer to seeing my mother again. I was unbearably impatient. The train finally arrived in Marmande. We got off the train and once again stood on the platform where I had last seen my mother and father, waving goodbye to them as we set off for what we thought would be a few weeks of summer camp. On that same platform stood my mother. I ran to her and hugged and kissed her, as did my brother. Our faces were wet with tears of joy and gratitude. We had been separated for two and a half years, which to a ten-year old feels like a lifetime. I am sure I had grown an inch or two, as had my brother, but I don’t remember my mother commenting on this.
My mother’s friend, Madame Radzinsky, who owned a clothing store in Marmande, accompanied my mother. She asked if I recognized my mother. I said that I thought she was fatter than when I had last seen her. My mother laughed. She did not think my comment rude. To me, it was a sign that she was healthy, since food had been scarce in Lourdes and we often had trouble getting enough to eat.
Our reunion was marvelous. It was what I had been praying for, hoping for, wishing for. The thought that I might not see my mother again had often brought me almost to the point of desperation. And what about my father?
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