Henoch, or Henri, from what I have been told about him.
How to write the story of my father? How to write about someone that you have never known, seen, or touched, someone who is my father? From an early age, I saw him in the photographs, which luckily my mother had kept, and which today I keep carefully. They are in black and white and, despite the time, have not aged, like my father, moreover, this man who has not grown old, who has remained young forever. He has come a short way in life, he only walked 27 years.
He was born on June 12, 1914 in Zolkiew, Lwow, Poland, now Ukraine, the second son of Abram Rausch and Jutta Astman, of a family of five children, three boys and two girls. His father worked as a carter, that is to say a messenger: he went looking for those who needed to transport either goods or mail. I have no further information concerning the origins of the Rausch family. On the other hand, I know that the Astman family had been from the region for several generations, the father of my maternal grandmother came from a family of twelve boys.
I have very little information about my father's childhood, about his education. I can deduce that he must have been brought up as a “heder” like most children at the time, that he must have been a young furrier apprentice, information that I got from my father-in-law, namely that all children were prepared to learn a trade. Other than that, I have no other information.
Of all her family, only her two brothers survived the war, the eldest, Bernard and the younger, Teddy; the older sister was deported with her husband and child from Mechelen, Belgium, in 1944, the younger sister was massacred with her parents by the Nazis in their village. My uncles have walled themselves all their lives into an impenetrable silence, concerning their life before. Even today, my father's younger brother, who still lives, hides behind the wall of oblivion, well built and impenetrable. On the other hand, my other uncle, who died two years ago at the age of 94, once confessed to one of my cousins of his great remorse at having left Europe in 1939 without my father, having always considered himself responsible for his brothers and sisters and therefore, subsequently, for the rest of the family.
How to reconstruct the narrative of a life? A short life, but no less intense. I only know my father through the stories of my mother, my aunts, his friends, who survived the war. This is how I was able to get an image of his character, his qualities, his faults, his way of being, his physical appearance. It seems he had sky blue eyes, which gave him a melancholy look. Few of the photos show him smiling, but rather serious and concerned. He was slender and even athletic, many photos show him skiing, cycling, soccer, canoeing, at the beach. And worker, according to the photos taken in his workshop. He had his own workshop, with a team of three or four with him, all on task with their white aprons.
According to the file established by the CIVS, I was able to see the precise date of my father's arrival in France, information that, until now, I had not obtained. The Analytical Register, folio 108, specifies “aut. France 13-6-33 ” . He matriculated in the Register of Commerce the following year, in 1934, as a furrier at 80 Faubourg Saint-Denis, Paris 12th . In 1936, it was also registered in the Trade Register, with the same mentions. His workshop will be the object of an aryanization measure, and thereafter, three administrators will follow one another, until 1944, when the seals will be lifted. My mother was re-registered in the Trades Register in 1945, in the hope of her return.
My parents were married in 1938 and lived at 49 rue Condorcet, Paris 9th . From their marriage, my mother joined my father in his work which was not new to her, being herself the daughter of furriers. They had their workshop at 80 Faubourg St-Denis, in the 12th .
My mother, Tatiana Leifer, was born on January 31, 1915 in Brest-Litovsk, which was in Russia at the time. His parents, Zalman Leifer and Rosa Tilles, both also from Brest-Litovsk, arrived in France in 1920, with three children and my grandfather's mother, Rachel Nephtar, fleeing the rise of the Bolsheviks, famine and misery of Russia. They had obtained entry and residence permits through the intermediary of my maternal grandmother's parents, who were already residing in France from 1910 or 1912. So the whole family obtained French nationality in 1921. The three sisters of my mother were born in Paris. She was the oldest of six children, two of her sisters, Sylvie and Fanny, have died in recent years, her brothers, Moise and Benjamin, were arrested on August 20, 1941, during the roundup of 11In the arrondissement, both were also deported to Auschwitz by convoys 1 and 3. Her younger sister, Annie, still lives in Paris; my mother, who subsequently remarried in Argentina, lived with my stepfather from 1980 near us until their deaths.
When war was declared, from what I knew, my father understood that he, like his older brother, also had to leave France. It was the dilemma of all foreign nationals: where to go?His goal was to join his younger brother in America, but due to the different quotas entry visas were almost impossible to obtain. However, he took several steps and finally obtained a visa to go to the Dominican Republic. They left Paris with my mother to embark, but on the way he found himself facing the retreating Polish army. As his papers indicated that he was of Polish nationality, he was forced to follow this Polish unit until it was taken prisoner by the Germans. He escapes and returns to Paris. I have no information on his escape.
And life resumed as before, until the summons of the “green ticket” on May 14, 1941 when he was interned in Beaune-la-Rolande, in the Loiret. A temporary administrator was appointed for his workshop, and the seals were installed. My mother went to see him several times. During a visit, she had organized his escape. Apparently it was not too difficult, but although she had everything prepared, he refused to escape, to go into hiding, to have false papers. The detainees were initially convinced that their arrest would be provisional, that they would then be transferred to workplaces.
From this fateful period concerning Beaune-la-Rolande, I have certain photographs of my father, in front of his hut, smoking, alone. I have others with a group of men, photos a little blurry, but still identifiable. A period that caused my mother ineffable grief, which she “dragged” all her life. Her refusal to escape, when it was still possible, her lack of initiative and risk-taking were difficult for her to accept, she who has been daring, energetic and courageous all her life, as the sequel has proved. .
I don't have to judge either one, for the circumstances were such that, no doubt, he didn't have much choice. Over time, my mom accepted it, saying it had been her fate.
From my father, I have only three items: his cigarette case, a jewelry box, and a grammar. The cigarette holder is a bit dented, perhaps because of past adventures. It is in silver, with his initials, HR. When my mother gave it to me, it had her last letter from Beaune-la-Rolande in it; letter that I subsequently moved, consciously or unconsciously, until the day I no longer found it, but I remember almost word for word what she was saying. It was just before his deportation, it was written in perfect French: he told her to have confidence in the future, that he was going to a labor camp, and that when he returned, they were going to raise me. together. Which never happened. Apparently they had corresponded a lot throughout his stay in Beaune-la-Rolande, and at one point,
I was born January 17, 1942 in Paris 9th. And he went in deportation by convoy 5, on June 28, 1942. Never to return.
The second object is a wooden jewelry or sewing box that he must have bought in Beaune-la-Rolande, made by prisoners. There is an inscription on the back and it reads: “Souvenir of Beaune-la-Rolande to my dear wife Tatiana. 21-2-1942 ” .
And the third is a little French grammar, which must have belonged to him because his name is written on the first page: Henri Rausch, a book that I found, to my great surprise, not long ago, when I sorted my mom's things.
Afterwards, my mother decided to flee to the free zone, with two of my aunts and me. We crossed the line of demarcation, and we settled in Saint-Antonin-Noble-Val, in the Tarn-et-Garonne, where provided with false papers, we remained until the end of the war.
Everything my mother told me about my father was in snatches, always interspersed with tears. She has always been true to her memory, even remarried, even after more than 50 years. It couldn't be otherwise, he had been the love of her life. It has always been haunted by these years of war, of occupation. Until his last months, in the fog of his life, it had stuck in his memory.
I can't say when exactly I heard the fateful word of Auschwitz, a place that will ultimately haunt me for the rest of my life. Even after going there, I still think of this place with dread, this museum of horror, which has today become the symbol of Nazi barbarism.
In October 1948, my mother and I left France for good and went to Argentina, where my father's surviving brothers were living. It was around this time, as I remember, that every Yom Kippur my mother encouraged me to go to synagogue to say Kaddish in remembrance of my father. Subsequently, my mother remarried a survivor, Samuel Honig, who had also had his first wife deported, and who also, by this chance of life, was of the same “shtetl”than my father, and who had known him. He was of the same generation as my uncle. He never told me too much about my father, out of respect for my mother, my uncles, or for himself, I never knew and I never insisted. We have made a family. He was my adoptive father, I was always for him the child he never had. And he was a real grandfather to my children. He died in 2004, at the age of 94.
I married Jorge Farkas and in 196.9 we made the decision to move to the United States, where we had two children. We now reside in Newton, a suburb of Boston.
Every time I go to Paris, I go to the Shoah Memorial, even for a short time, to touch the slab where his name and surname are forever inscribed.
In any case, today I can say that his disappearance will not be forgotten, his memory remains and will remain alive. Life has taken over. On September 4, 2008, my granddaughter was born, that is to say her great-granddaughter, exactly 66 years old a few days before her disappearance. Records indicate that his death at Auschwitz took place on August 27, 1942.
My mother passed away in December 2008, six weeks before she turned 94, but she was fortunate enough to have seen the birth of her great-granddaughter.
And what will remain forever is grief, memory and so many unanswered questions. And as Elie Wiesel says in his latest book "Le cas Sonderberg:" “We do not live in the past, but the past lives in us.”
Testimony collected in 2010
HENOCH (HENRI) RAUSCH
Interned at the Beaune-la-Rolande camp from May 14, 1941
Deported to Auschwitz on June 28, 1942 by convoy 5
Murdered in Auschwitz on August 27, 1942 at the age of 28
CLAIRE FARKAS
Girl Henoch (Henri) Rausch
Born January 17, 1942 in Paris 9e
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