Intersection
In April 1943, my father, Hersz Josef Szmekura, fought in the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. He was 29 years old. He was the father of three young children. His wife Rose and their children perished before 1943 in the Ghetto. He never considered himself as anything other than an ordinary man defending his family, his dignity and the lives of his comrades. He and my mother, pictured in the background, whom he met when the war ended, survived the horror of the Holocaust but could never erase the memories. This self-portrait will never do them the justice they deserve.
(© Max Szmekura 17/09/2021 www.personalpronoun.net)
Character building
Here is how the characters in my story are developed. In Intersection, I introduce the main character.
One foot in the forest, one in the city. I am not a hero. Heroes are fabrications of others’ minds. I am not the Colossus of Rhodes guarding the harbour, standing astride with each footed planted on either side of the sea gate. The monolith of the Colossus lies broken and drowned beneath the waves.
My childhood memories are contained in vivid events that stay imprinted for posterity.
When I was six, a young woman brought a horse to the park across the road from where I lived. The horse was grey and white. I was afraid of it. It was huge and shat straw. Its eyes were like giant brown glass marbles. The lady dismounted and offered children in the crowd gathering around us, a ride. With her was a young man wearing jeans and a cowboy shirt. Just like the cowboys in the Saturday matinee. Wow! What a sight. This was the real thing. The only things missing were the guns and hats.
Karen, the girl from next door, volunteered and was lifted onto the horse. The woman cradled her in front. They walked a lazy circle around the park The other children all yelled their approval and desire for a ride. I held back, I was unashamedly afraid.
Back then, my world was made of concrete and bitumen. Sure, we had a huge park across the road with manicured lawn and playground equipment. I learned my first lessons in tribal politics in that park. One morning sitting on the swings, I was approached by a group of children one of which said, “Get off the swing! You’re not allowed on these swings unless Bossy says you can.” Who the fuck was Bossy?
I was roughly shoved off the swing and pushed to the ground. I got up. These kids circled me. One of them broke the circle and came in to face me. Was this Bossy? Unlike feeling scared of the horse, I did not feel the same fear. This was a boy around my height, probably the same age. He was just like me or so I thought. He lashed out with a straight fist which caught me on the side of the face. I was surprised but it did not hurt. I had never been in a fight. I only knew about fist fighting from watching movies. I hit back. We rolled to the ground grappling each other until Bossy landed a punch to my eye. I screamed in rage and grabbed his hair, and he screamed back. The other boys all started to run off as some adults alerted by our shrill yells came running over. Bossy struggled to get up but I caught his shorts and then to my surprise they came down and lo and behold, he had a second pair of shorts underneath. He managed to scramble up and ran off leaving his outer pair of shorts in the grass. I got up and ran home.
My mother alarmed at my crying and snotty face yelled at me, “What happened!” Through my tears, I told her. “The boy with the two pairs of pants punched me.” I could not understand why my mom was angry with me. She sent me to the kitchen where she cleaned me up. I never saw Bossy and his gang again. I guess facing him, not running was enough to weaken his short-lived dominance. Of course, at the age of six, I had no notion of politics or the tribal urge to assert leadership. I just wanted to be left alone and enjoy the swing.
My parents were immigrants. They sought refuge in a country full of foreigners. Some of these foreigners were transported here as convicts over a century earlier and took the land from the traditional owners. Over seven generations they built towns and cities and engaged in commerce and nation-building.
Hersz Josef Szmekura 1947 age 33
Sarah Szmekura (nee Milewski) 1947 age 22
My father worked as a tailor making women’s coats. My mom looked after the house and the four of us children. Friday nights when dad came home from work, he would always bring a gift. A puzzle or a comic. We looked forward to that time even though my older brother would greedily hog the gift, asserting his standing as the oldest boy. I hero-worshipped Jack back then. To me, he was handsome and adventurous. He once broke his leg and had been in a cast for months because he fell down some stairs. Having a broken leg in a cast and crutches looked very heroic to me of a wounded soldier.I
I did not have much to do with my younger siblings. My younger brother and my infant sister were somewhat of a mystery to me. I followed Jack and his mates everywhere they went when I could. Jack didn’t seem to mind. I guess he was pleased that I looked up to him.
The real hero was my dad. In my parent’s bedroom, a pair of old very worn leather jackboots stood in the never used fireplace. On the dressing table, a photograph of dad wearing those boots. He was dressed in jodhpurs and had an automatic pistol. On the door hung a gaberdine raincoat like the ones we associate with old spy stories. I looked at my dad sitting at the treadle-powered Singer sewing machine and could not equate him to the man in that photograph.
Mum was always in conflict. I am not saying she was unloving. But she was always yelling at dad. Accusing him of sleeping with other women and gambling. Dad also had a short fuse and they both would engage in domestic combat on a daily basis. I remember clearly thinking back then that one day I would leave all that behind and live a more peaceful life.
My parents were surrounded by horror before they arrived in Australia and lived in constant terror. They were subjected to some of the worst things imaginable during the war, including losing their families. Coming to a land where they were free of victimisation must have been very difficult for them to adjust to. Back then there was no recognition of post-traumatic stress. We, kids, became their sounding board. It was on us they imprinted their fears and terrifying experiences.
https://time.com/5245019/warsaw-ghetto-uprising-memory/
Creator: Keystone | Credit: Getty Images
“Don’t play with the gentiles, they will betray you!”
As a child, I heard their words in very simple terms. I did not hear the fear burned into the words back then. Their words were walls and fences to keep the world out. They would never trust anything or anyone ever again. So, I did what some children do. I became a runner. Every opportunity to leave I took only to be apprehended by a posse of my parent’s friends and neighbours.
As I opened the door to adolescence I stepped away one night and did not return. I left my childishness, but it did not leave me. I wore a new set of clothes to hide the frightened kid who I locked away inside my bones.
Recognition often comes late in life. Understanding who my parents were and how they came to be the way they were, also made me realise how they were embedded in my soul. My work ethic came from them. They worked every day of their lives, up at dawn and late to bed. They opened my eyes to the injustice in the world, for them back then, and for others today. I am at the intersection. Facing a maze of pathways and confounded by too many choices. All I can do is keep choosing and let the chaotic consequence of my decisions lead me. So, here I am, in the forest looking back at the boundary and the distant mist-filled city skyline.
