Holocaust

All posts tagged Holocaust

13 January 2017

Published January 11, 2017 by rochellewisoff

 

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PHOTO PROMPT © C.E. Ayr

PHOTO PROMPT © C.E. Ayr

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

THE HEAVIEST WHEEL ROLLS ACROSS OUR FOREHEADS

            When I was a little girl in the 1950’s, Mom used to take me to visit my aunt in St. Louis. I looked forward to those train rides. Sunlight dazzled through the trees as they whizzed by and the rhythm of the wheels clicking along the track soothed me.

            Dad, on the other hand, hated trains, but would never tell me why. Only once did he accompany us.

            As we left Union Station, tears trickled from the corners of his faraway eyes.   

            “Daddy, what’s wrong?”

            “The stench was unbearable. Fifty of us crammed into a cattle car. I alone escaped.”

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death-train

TO SLEEP PERCHANCE TO DREAM

Published December 26, 2016 by rochellewisoff

This is my offering for What Pegman Saw

For guidelines and rules for the What Pegman Saw weekly writing prompt, visit the home page. It’s simple: a story of 150 words or less inspired by your street view tour of the location.

This week’s location was suggested by gifted writer and photographer Graham over at grahamisjustmyname.com. Thanks Graham!

Join in and add your link!

froggy

gulfoss-waterfall

This is the view I chose from the Google site.

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 147

TO SLEEP PERCHANCE TO DREAM

Eva couldn’t wait for bedtime. Her faithful dream came every night. All day she longed for the sheer pleasure of flying amongst the cotton-soft clouds. The sky would always be a mixture of azure and cerulean. Lively music filled her ears as she flipped in midair.

This particular night she hovered above a waterfall. The thundering waters cavorted and flowed over shimmering quartz stones. A mermaid with a gleaming green tail sat on one of them in the midst of the waves. Her eyes glowed like candles. Sea spray veiled her shining violet hair that cascaded over her shoulders like a silken cape.

Holding out her arms, her melodious voice beckoned. “Eva, sweet Eva, come swim with me.”

***

“Eva, get up!”

Shira shook her sister’s narrow shoulders. Grey light through the barrack’s filthy window illuminated Eva’s skeletal face and serene smile.

Weeping, Shira whispered, “Arbeit macht frei.”

11 November 2016

Published November 9, 2016 by rochellewisoff

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Another HighwayThe next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit. 

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 98

I WILL NEVER FORGET YOU

                                                                                                                                       August 1953

Chère Maîtresse,

            Today I hold my firstborn, Lois Marie. Marie is for my mother of blessed memory who perished before I turned nine.    

            Remember how she shoved me into your tender arms at Camp de Rivesaltes? Remember how you kissed away my tears? Why did you leave your comfortable home to spit in the face of death?

            “It is my purpose,” you said.  

            Although I’ve been criticized for naming my Jewish baby after a living gentile, it’s only right to honor the American angel who combed the lice from my hair.

            Je ne t’oublierai jamais, Lois Gunden.

*Note: It is an Ashkenazi Jewish tradition to name a child after someone, usually a family member, who has passed on. To a certain extent it’s believed that the soul of the loved one lives on in the child who bears his or her name. 

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Lois is one of the “righteous gentiles” honored at Yad VaShem, the Holocaust museum in Jerusalem.

lois-gundenTo learn about this courageous woman more click here. 

13 May 2016

Published May 11, 2016 by rochellewisoff

Another Hightway

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The following photo is the PROMPT. Keep in mind that all photos are the property of the contributor, therefore copyrighted and require express permission to use for purposes other than Friday Fictioneers. Giving credit to whom credit is due is proper etiquette.

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

SWINGJUGEND

            In 1969 my mother packed me off to my aunt and uncle’s dairy farm in Wisconsin.

            “But Mom, Uncle Otto’s weird. That eyepatch and those scars—ick.”

***

            One night he took my Jefferson Airplane record from the stereo and replaced it with his own 45.

            “You tink das ist protest music?”

            “‘It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing,’” He sang. “The SS ransacked our nightclub, but I danced all the way to Buchenwald.”

            Uncle Otto taught me more than the jitterbug that summer.

***

            At his funeral last year I saluted my favorite uncle with, “Swing Heil!”

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22 April 2016

Published April 20, 2016 by rochellewisoff

Another Hightway

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The following photo is the PROMPT. Keep in mind that all photos are the property of the contributor, therefore copyrighted and require express permission to use for purposes other than Friday Fictioneers. Giving credit to whom credit is due is proper etiquette.

Best wishes go out to our friend CEAYR and hopes that he’ll be without pain very soon. 

PHOTO PROMPT © Madison Woods

PHOTO PROMPT © Madison Woods

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This month marks my fourth Friday Fictioneers Anniversary! To commemorate it I’m posting a rerun. At least the photo’s a rerun. If you already wrote a story to go with this prompt all those years ago, feel free to take a breather and re-post it. 

As I reread the story I posted four years ago this week, I decided it needed some updating. It was, after all, the third flash fiction I ever wrote. If you’d like to read the original click HERE 

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

IN MEMORY OF 24682

Between barbs and twisted wire the sun had the audacity to shine.  Marushka’s stomach howled in outrage as she licked the dregs of a discarded sardine tin. She stretched her skeletal legs and longed for silk stockings to hug her once shapely calves.

She took a cracked mirror from her pocket and winced at her bald reflection. Murderer!

“I couldn’t let them hear you.” Memories of her baby gasping for breath under her palm haunted her. Employing the jagged glass, she slashed from her wrist to her tattoo. Relief flooded her as her life pooled in the grass. “Mama’s coming.”

 

29 January 2016

Published January 27, 2016 by rochellewisoff

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Please include the PHOTO PROMPT with your story. All photos are copyrighted and may not be used outside of Friday Fictioneers without express permission and possible remuneration to the owner. Please be courteous and give credit where credit is due. 

The challenge is 100 WORDS OR LESS. It’s a worthwhile challenge that teaches us as writers how to conserve and use the strongest words to tell our stories. With the number of submissions every week, this is not only a great challenge but also a consideration to other readers. 

The following photo is the PHOTO PROMPT. Study it. Think about it. What kind of story does it tell you? Think outside the box. 

Thank you and Shalom, 

Your Fairy Blog Mother, Rochelle

 

PHOTO PROMPT - © ceayr

PHOTO PROMPT – © ceayr

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 99

SHOAH

            “Where’s Nadine?” I stamped my foot with childish impatience.

            “The Juif doesn’t live here anymore.” The man hissed through pinched lips.  

            “Because of the Bosche?”

            “No more questions.” The door slammed and he shouted from the other side. “Go away!”

________

            Seventy years later sunlight flickers on ocean waves at Saint-Marc. I walk along the deserted beach where Nadine and I gathered seashells and dreams.

            “Martine, swim with me.” 

            Shielding my eyes, I search the rippling waters. Nadine beckons. I’m warmed by her smile…and the twelve-year-old girl who choked her last in Auschwitz’s Zyklon-B showers lives forever in my heart.

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**Note: Today as I post my story it is 27 January. The United Nations designated January 27—the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau—as International Holocaust Remembrance Day. A time to remember and say “Never again!” 

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To learn more about Nadine click here.

Original Artwork © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Original Artwork © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

28 August 2015

Published August 26, 2015 by rochellewisoff

The disc and the dragonfly

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*Note: It is also common courtesy to give the contributor of the photo credit in your post. The next photo in this gallery is the PHOTO PROMPT. Does it suggest a story to you? Tell us in one hundred words or less. My story will follow the inLinkz icon. I enjoy honest feedback and comments. 

PHOTO PROMPT - ©Claire Fuller

PHOTO PROMPT – © Claire Fuller

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

HAINING, JANE; PRISONER NUMBER 79467

            When I was six they sent me to the girl’s home where I found Jane Haining the house matron. Sometimes I had trouble understanding her brogue-accented Hungarian but her love transcended all language barriers.

            She mothered each of us as her own “wee bairns”, whether Jewish or Christian.

            When the Nazis took over Budapest she disobeyed orders and refused to return to Scotland, saying, “If these children need me in days of sunshine, how much more in darkness?”

***

            I study the numbers tattooed on my arm and I’m haunted by the question, “Why did I live and that angel die?”.

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Jane HainingClick here for more. 

RIVERS OF JEWISH BLOOD

Published March 3, 2015 by rochellewisoff

At a writer’s conference four years ago a prominent New York agent took an interest in PLEASE SAY KADDISH FOR ME. She asked me to add twenty-thousand words to it and then send her a hard copy.

For months I made a point of rising three hours before going to work at 7:00 am to write. Heart pounding, I sent the fruit of my labors only to have it returned in a matter of weeks. In her rejection letter she said it was “too much like FIDDLER ON THE ROOF” and it was “a story that everybody already knew.”

Ironically, I’ve told others that my book could be subtitled “The dark side of FIDDLER ON THE ROOF.” On the other hand, does my novel tell a story that everyone knows?

Often, when I’m asked what my book is about and I answer that it’s about a woman who survives the pogrom in Kishinev, the capital city of what is now known as Moldova, the next question is, “What’s a pogrom?” It is that the question that convinced me to continue writing.

“‘Kill the Jews!’ Frenzied shouts came from the tailor shop sending icicles down Havah’s back. Sounds of machines toppling and tearing cloth ripped through her.”PSKFM

 On April 19, 1903, as Christians celebrated Easter, the pogrom began at noon. Fueled by the rumor that a Christian child had been murdered in a Jewish ritual and the blood used to make unleavened bread, a frenzied mob rampaged through Jewish neighborhoods for two days.

Reportedly, local police made no attempt to interfere with rioters wielding iron bars and axes. Those who were taken into custody were soon released.

By the time the violence ended two-thousand families were left homeless, five-hundred were wounded and fifty Jewish people were dead.

“Crushing silence, heavy and cruel, closed in on Havah like a burial garment. She opened her eyes. Her soul pleaded for a sound. Children’s laughter. She longed to hear it. Craved it like sweet raisins. But only more quiet answered her plea.”PSKFM

“Crushing silence, heavy and cruel, closed in on Havah like a burial garment. She opened her eyes. Her soul pleaded for a sound. Children’s laughter. She longed to hear it. Craved it like sweet raisins. But only more quiet answered her plea.” PSKFM

No one needed to identify the last corpse in the row for it was draped in his father’s tallis. He took off his hat, scraped a handful of dirt from the street and sprinkled it over his bare head. With a muffled sob he fell beside Evron’s body, clutching the prayer shawl’s fringes. Then he uncovered his brother’s face for one last goodbye, kissed his cold forehead and replaced the cover.

“No one needed to identify the last corpse in the row for it was draped in Itzak’s father’s tallis. Itzak took off his hat, scraped a handful of dirt from the street and sprinkled it over his bare head. With a muffled sob he fell beside Evron’s body, clutching the prayer shawl’s fringes. Then he uncovered his brother’s face for one last goodbye, kissed his cold forehead and replaced the cover.” PSKFM

News of the bloody pogrom sent shockwaves around the world. Rallies were held in London, Paris and New York. President Theodore Roosevelt urged the Czar to denounce the massacre. The Czar refused.

The New York Times reported:

“The anti-Jewish riots in Kishinev, Bessarabia, are worse than the censor will permit to publish. There was a well laid-out plan for the general massacre of Jews on the day following the Russian Easter. The mob was led by priests, and the general cry, “Kill the Jews,” was taken up all over the city. The Jews were taken wholly unaware and were slaughtered like sheep. The dead number 120 and the injured about 500. The scenes of horror attending this massacre are beyond description. Babes were literally torn to pieces by the frenzied and bloodthirsty mob. The local police made no attempt to check the reign of terror. At sunset the streets were piled with corpses and wounded. Those who could make their escape fled in terror, and the city is now practically deserted of Jews.” (“Jewish Massacre Denounced,” New York Times, April 28, 1903, p 6)

Historians have called pogroms such as these the dress rehearsal for the Nazi Holocaust. Over a hundred years have passed since Kishinev and other such pogroms. Do we remember them? Is this really a story that everybody already knows?  

11 October 2013

Published October 9, 2013 by rochellewisoff

WELCOME TO FRIDAY FICTIONEERS. 

As always, writers are encouraged to be as innovative as possible with the prompt and 100 word constraints. 

Henry David Thoreau said it best.

“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”

THE CHALLENGE:

Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going a few words over the count.)

THE KEY:

Make every word count.

THE RULES:

  • Copy your URL to the Linkz collection. You’ll find the tab following the photo prompt. It’s the little white box to the left with the blue froggy guy. Click on it and follow directions. This is the best way to get the most reads and comments.
  • MAKE SURE YOUR LINK IS SPECIFIC TO YOUR FLASH. (Should you find that you’ve made an error you can delete by clicking the little red ‘x’ that should appear under your icon. Then re-enter your URL. (If there’s no red x email me at Runtshell@aol.com. I can delete the wrong link for you).
  • While our name implies “fiction only” it’s perfectly Kosher to write a non-fiction piece as long as it meets the challenge of being a complete story in 100 words. 
    • ***PLEASE MAKE NOTE IN YOUR BLOG IF  YOU PREFER NOT TO RECEIVE CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM.*** 
    • REMINDER: This page is “FRIDAY FICTIONEERS CENTRAL” and is NOT the place to promote political or religious views. Also, you are responsible for the content of your story and policing comments on your blog. You have the right to delete any you consider offensive.

    **Please exercise DISCRETION when commenting on a story! Be RESPECTFUL.**

    Should someone have severe or hostile differences of opinion with another person it’s my hope that the involved parties would settle their disputes in private.

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  • ;) My story follows the photo and link tool. I enjoy honest comments and welcome constructive criticism. :D
  • Shalom,

              Rochelle

Copyright - Sandra Crook

Copyright – Sandra Crook

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 99

ROSE OF SHARON

            Annetta’s blonde hair, blue eyes, and well-turned figure kept her alive for the worst part of two years at Ravensbrück.

            A year after the liberation, she accepted an invitation from Gershom, a Treblinka survivor, to join him and his friends in Palestine.

            At Kibbutz Ein HaNatziv they planted olive trees. Amid the date palms Annetta felt her spirit revive.

            One day while strolling through Beit She’an’s ancient ruins, Gershom led her to sit on one of the amphitheater’s stone steps and then knelt. “Marry me.”

            “You’d marry a…whore?”

            “No…you…” With calloused hands he caressed her cheeks. “…are altogether lovely.”

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For the history behind my pound of fiction click here.

                                   

Ancient amphitheater in Beit She'an, Israel.  Copyright- Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Ancient amphitheater in Beit She’an, Israel.
Copyright- Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Founders of Kibbutz Ein HaNatziv- 1946

Founders of Kibbutz Ein HaNatziv- 1946

22 February 2013

Published February 20, 2013 by rochellewisoff

IT’S THAT TIME AGAIN…THE HIGH POINT IN YOUR WEEK

“The weekly gathering of the Fictioneers has commenced.  Bring out the halt, the lame, the blind, the murderers and aliens, vampires and vamps. Look carefully and you might see a human or two.  Take them all, stir thoroughly, add a dollop of disbelief, a soupçon of silliness. Dip a spoon into the resulting slumgullion:  each recipe meticulously prepared, marvelously rendered, tasty to the tongue.  Your personal recipe is solicited or feel free to simply feast and go away replete; perhaps not always uplifted, but with your brain stimulated.” —Janet Webb

THE CHALLENGE:

Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going over or under the word count.)

THE KEY:

Make every word count.

THE RULES:

  • Copy your URL to the Linkz collection. You’ll find the tab following the photo prompt. It’s the little white box to the left with the blue froggy guy. Click on it and follow directions. This is the best way to get the most reads and comments.
  • MAKE SURE YOUR LINK  IS SPECIFIC TO YOUR FLASH FICTION. (Should you find that you’ve made an error you can delete by clicking the little red ‘x’ that should appear under your icon. Then re-enter your URL. (If there’s no red x email me at Runtshell@aol.com. I can delete the wrong link for you).Thanks to Blogspot bloggers for disabling their  CAPTCHAs.  
  • Make note in your blog if you’d prefer not to have constructive criticism. 
  • REMINDER:
  • This page is “FRIDAY FICTIONEERS CENTRAL” and is NOT the place to promote political or religious views. Also, you are responsible for the content of your story and policing comments on your blog. You have the right to delete any you consider offensive.  

**Please exercise DISCRETION  when commenting on a story! Be RESPECTFUL.**

Should someone have severe or hostile differences of opinion with another person it’s my hope that the involved parties would settle their disputes in private. 

***************

:)  My story will follow the prompt for those who might be distracted by reading a story before writing their own . I enjoy your comments. :)

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Copyright-Janet Webb

Copyright-Janet Webb




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Genre-Historical Fiction

Word Count-100

MEMORY’S HARVEST

            In 1947 six-year-old Lyudmila moved from Poland with Father to her uncle’s dairy farm in upstate New York. She milked cows and gathered eggs. Every morning the Catskills kissed the sky. A bright, happy place for a child.

    “So young she won’t remember,” whispered Aunt Dora one night over dinner.   

            Weeks later Lyudmila twisted her ankle on a tree root.  

           “Just a sprain,” said Dr. Meinenger. “You will be sehr gut as new, Liebling.”

            His gentle touch and familiar accent stirred sleeping memories.   

            Dr. Mengele’s gloved fingers.

            Her twin sister’s severed limbs on the operating table.

           Lyudmila would never forget. 

To further your education click here. WARNING! Contains graphic material.

 

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