Sometimes the past reaches up and taps me on the shoulder, asks me not to forget. Tonight I was at my desk working late when I suddenly thought of my great-grandma Rose, the mystery of her story, who her people were. I began searching for variations of her surname Sherman on Yad Vashem and KehilaLinks and remembered that I was told by an elderly relative, Gordon Gelfond, that she came from Kalinovka, so I went looking for the story of Kalinovka, a page I’ve seen before — the brief and agonizing horror of the ghettoization of the Jews of Kalinovka who were rounded up and murdered on May 30, 1942.
May 30. I looked at my calendar and shivered. 76 years ago this very day. The ghosts are still reaching out, asking us not to forget what became of them.
Whether or not you are my blood, I remember you.