Yesterday was a special day.
During my last unit, in which we studied Night and other Holocaust memoir pieces and films, I reached out to Facing History and Ourselves--an organization that helps educators link history to moral choices today--about having a Holocaust survivor speak to my students. I emailed with a woman at Facing History for a few weeks, and then didn't hear from her.
Spring break passed, we finished studying the Holocaust, and we moved into our next unit (we're reading Othello). I felt terrible because I had mentioned to my students I was trying to have a survivor come speak. Then, last Thursday night, my contact at Facing History emailed me. A survivor--Lily Margules--was set to come the following Tuesday. On Friday and Monday, I scrambled to gain permission from my administration, reserve the biggest room in my school, and organize which 75 of my 130 students I was inviting.
On Monday and Tuesday morning I woke up with knots in my stomach. I was nervous. Nervous things would go wrong. Nervous she'd get stuck in traffic. Nervous my students would disrespect her.
Around 10:30 Tuesday morning I met Lily outside of my school. The moment I met Lily, I felt connected to her somehow, almost as if I'd known her my entire life. I can't explain why I felt that way, but I did. She was so cute-- wearing a green skirt suit and heels. Heels!
At this point 75 of my students were already seated and waiting for her arrival. The second I opened the door, the room filled with applause. All eyes were on Lily as she walked to the middle of the room. I gave her water and pointed to a chair if she wanted to sit.
I briefly introduced Lily. Then, she began her story. She asked if anyone knew what "survivor" meant. One student, K, raised her hand tentatively. She said quietly, "someone who makes it through a difficult time." Lily, who moved toward K to hear, said, "Please speak up honey, grandma is hard of hearing." Everyone laughed. I could feel her warmth and desire to connect with my students on a deeply personal level.
For the next 45 minutes, the room was silent except for the bell and the trucks passing on the highway outside. Every student's eyes were transfixed on Lily as she walked around the room pouring out her painful memories of the Holocaust.
Lily's story made everything I had taught my students real. Her words had a power I cannot describe. Her poignant story moved every student in that room.
As Lily told a story of her act of resistance against the Nazis, a few students wiped away tears. After surviving the Vilna ghetto, a few slave labor camps and two concentration camps, in January 1945, Lily and her sister (among others) were forced on a death march. I cannot do her story justice. They trudged through the snow for days. One of Lily's friends had started limping, so Lily and her sister tried to help her stand up and continue walking. Their efforts failed, though, and the Nazi guard shot her in front of everyone. The guard then said, "You're all cold. Go, take her coat." No one else had a coat. Lily said that everyone stood there. No one took the coat from the girl they loved and cared about deeply. That was her act of resistance against the Nazis inhumanity. She refused to be turned into an animal.
After Lily took questions, we thanked her for sharing her story, for dedicating time to connect with us. Four of my students presented her with flowers. She hugged and kissed each student on the cheek, thanking them. (Let's just say I fought my hardest to hold back tears but failed miserably.)
After I dismissed my students, I was shocked by how many (maybe 30) gathered around Lily-- to say thanks, introduce themselves, shake her hands, and hug her.
As I said goodbye to Lily outside of my school, I felt like I was saying goodbye to one of my grandparents. She hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. As the car drove away, I felt incredibly humbled.
