In the early '90s I guided canoe trips to earn a little extra cash. It was better than the alternative- teaching summer school. I met Hana and Gerta Frieberg on one of these trips and had the privilege of taking them on a number of trips over the following two or three years. Gerta Frieberg died recently. Her obituary (Globe Obituary for Gerta Frieberg) drew me up short, reminding me of what a truly remarkable person she was.
In my early days of trying to become a writer, I wrote an essay about a trip I took with her and sent it to her on a whim. Not only did she arrange to have it published in The Canadian Jewish News, she used it during her presentations to raise money for Nueberger Centre. In a preamble in the publication of the piece, Gerta said "It is a testimony to all those aging volunteer survivors who share their painful story..."
I republish it here in honor of Gerta and in the memory of all those who were lost. May her memory be a blessing.
My introduction to the holocaust was typical of most kids growing up in Canada. It consisted of the one film they showed in history class from grade nine through grade thirteen. It showed the bodies of the Jews being bulldozed into mass graves. The image remained with me but the whole thing seemed unreal, like my mind was protecting me from fully understanding the horror.
I guide canoe trips during the summer. This past summer I guided a trip through Algonquin Park's Barron River Canyon. The river is remarkable for a couple of reasons. It winds through one of the deepest canyons in Ontario. There were two sisters along with us. One of them sat in the bow of my canoe. She is about seventy years old and as we pass through the magnificent canyon she began to talk. Not so much to me, because I am unseen in the back of the canoe, but to these huge granite cliffs that have been scarred by glaciers. She speaks in a whisper but because of the depth of the canyon, her words echo.
She says in a heavy accent: "My father would love this place. He was a naturalist. I would hike in the mountains with him and my sister and all we would take would be some bread and lemon. We would squeeze the lemon into a cup that was filled with mountain water and we would eat the bread by the stream. My father owned a Harley Davidson Motorcycle and every time I see one today I speak to the owner and tell them that my father owned one. When the Nazis came in '39 they took my father's motorcycle. It was the first thing they took in our village. They put us in the ghetto six months later and then my sister and I were sent to the camp. I never saw my father again. We spent four years after the war in a camp waiting for some country to take us."
I stop paddling and let us drift by the walls of the canyon. That image of the bodies being bulldozed into the mass grave comes back to me. Her father, an owner of a motorcycle and a man who would love this place like I do, was in that pile. That horror is now real to me, part of me.
We slip past the rocks. Her words echo as we move and there is only one other noise. It is in the distance and it serves as a drum beat to her lyric. The Barron River is also remarkable because of its proximity to the artillery range at Petawawa Military Base. This holocaust survivors words enter my ears at the same time as the sounds of an army practicing for war. Artillery punctuates her tale.
The canyon has become a horrible, beautiful place.
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