In this section, we present a selection of true short stories, each based on the memoirs of one of our readers, or of those of his or her older relatives. Every life has many stories and any memoir can be of interest - tell us how your great aunt immigrated to America from Italy, how you worked summers on your grandfather's farm in Iowa, how you celebrated the holidays in Budapest as a child, or how your father met a famous actress when he worked as an extra in a Biblical movie - anything goes! 

To have your story appear on the Agency's site, please e-mail a short query to let us know what you have in mind. If your story is selected, we will ask you to send us your written notes, or a tape on which you recorded your story.  Email us at editor@europeanjournal.net .We would also like to have one photograph to enhance the story. Then, we will rewrite or edit as needed, and your story will be available for the entire world to enjoy - entirely free of charge!

This section is related to another service - we can turn your memoirs into a full-length, beautiful book, and have it published by a reputable POD publishing house. If you are interested in this service, please let us know so we can acquaint you with the terms.

 

As World War I started our peaceful little world came to a sudden end. Danilo’s father, a doctor, was drafted into the army. His mother, unable to support Danilo and the two younger children, moved in with relatives in another town, I now forget which, it was so long ago. I cried and cried for a whole week when they left, but they promised to keep in touch and for a while we did exchange letters. My parents tried to comfort me, but I only cheered up when I received a letter. Even that did not last long, and all communications stopped. “It is war,” my parents explained. “You cannot rely on the post office.”

We had a very hard time through the war, but I don’t want to talk about it. My parents did their best, and my sister and I helped as much as we could. The one good thing was that my father, also a doctor like Danilo’s father, was never drafted. By 1919, after the war was over, my parents managed to get a visa, and decided the time was right to go to Israel, where we had some cousins living in Jerusalem. I would have loved the idea of the trip, except for knowing that I would never find Danilo. I sat by my window for an hour or so after my father made the announcement and gazed at the sunset. The cold green sky deepened my sense of loneliness. I knew that I could not find Danilo in Russia, either, we have tried again and again, but to leave Russia was to accept the fact that I will never see him.

Our trip was harrowing; we encountered filthy, flea-infested trains, constant threat of disease, hunger, and real danger at every border. I won’t go into details, the trip is another story which should be saved for another time. After a year or so we were in Jerusalem, got an apartment, and lived in reasonable comfort. My sister became a midwife, like my mother, and I became a teacher. My father quickly found work at the hospital and so did my mother.

I was now in my mid-twenties. In those days girls were expected to be married at that age. Not only was I pressured to do so, I must admit that I wanted a family of my own, a home, and children very much indeed. My sister married quickly – she met a very nice young man whom we all loved – and she and I had a talk about it. She said, “I understand that you still love Danilo, Rebecca.”

“I do,” I admitted. “However, most likely he is dead. Even if he were alive, he probably assumed long ago that you were dead and very likely got married. You can’t mourn your entire life for what might have been, you know. Marry, have a family, and forget.” I had to admit that was good advice, and I started dating.

As time went by I found myself attracted to a young man named Saul who was well established in his father’s business, an accounting firm. He was handsome and intelligent, and when he asked me to marry him I accepted. I knew I would never forget Danilo, but I was determined to be a good wife to Saul and hopefully, some day, a good mother.

We were married for fifteen years and had three wonderful children when one day I was walking home from work. I was a little tired and somehow I bumped into a man who was walking toward me. Looking up to apologize, I saw Danilo! We stood gaping at each other in disbelief. Both of us alive, both of us in Jerusalem! How could that be? We cried, but with happiness. Knowing that we both survived was enough to make us happy. Eventually we went to a café to talk and compare stories. He told me that he was married too, and had two children.

“It’s very sad, Rebecca,” he told me. “My wife, Dorothea, is not well. She is living in a mental institution. I try my best to help her and to give her everything she needs, but she will never recover.” “Well,” I said, “I’ll tell you my sad truth, too. My husband is an alcoholic. He is not a bad man, but when he drinks he is occasionally violent. Bringing up three children under the roof of an alcoholic was not easy. He is better now, under special care, but his liver is not well.”

“So you all live in Jerusalem, Rebecca?”
“Yes, we do. How about you?”
“I live here with the children. Dorothea’s hospital is in Tel-Aviv. I go there twice a week.”

We sat and reflected of how sad life could be. But meeting each other was a joy, and we could be good friends again. We stopped by Danilo’s home, got his children, and I brought them all home with me. I introduced Danilo to Saul as my “long lost brother” and we had a pleasant dinner. I made up my mind to help Danilo as best I could with his teen-age children, since he was alone, and never to seek anything other than friendship. I will be his sister, just the way I was when we were little children. I don’t know what Danilo thought about the matter, but we both behaved, from then on, as brother and sister.

Many years passed. I had visited Dorothea from time to time and did as much as I could for her, and she liked me. She would smile when I came into her room, the poor thing. I always brought her a little gift and she loved that. Eventually she died, very peacefully. Danilo’s children did very well and were now on their own, as were mine. At the same time, Saul became sicker and sicker. He could not control his drinking, no matter what we had attempted, and his liver finally gave up. One summer morning he asked me to forgive the sorrow he brought me and passed away. I was fifty-nine years old.

Of course, my friendship with Danilo never stopped. We saw each other all the time, we were family. Our children were like cousins. And yet I knew that I had never really stopped loving him. I was a good and faithful wife to Saul, but I had never loved anyone but Danilo. I did not know how he felt about me, and naturally I was not about to ask. We never talked about our feelings, and everything seemed so complicated, so difficult. Then one day, about a year after Saul’s death, we sat together in a café, drinking tea and talking about nothing special. Suddenly Danilo put his cup down and shocked me by saying, without any warning, “Rebecca, why shouldn’t we get married? We never talked about it, but you know we have never stopped loving each other all these years. We have fulfilled all our obligations. What is to stop us?” Suddenly everything seemed so simple, so beautiful. Indeed, what was there to stop us? What were the complications I was envisioning? The children were grown, Dorothea and Saul died peacefully, well looked after. We were free. I started crying, but with joy.

So we made our plans, quietly, without telling anyone what we had in mind. One day in spring we threw a huge party and invited everyone, children, friends, relatives. It was a lovely party with wonderful food and everybody was having a good time. In the middle of the party Danilo climbed on a chair and cried “Ladies and gentlemen – I have an announcement!” Everyone raised their heads in anticipation. They knew we were “dating” and indeed expected us to announce our engagement. Instead, Danilo said, “You should all know that yesterday Rebecca and I eloped and were secretly married! Let’s all have a glass of champagne!”

The entire room became completely silent with surprise. Suddenly a huge applause broke out and the guests were laughing and clapping, congratulating us on both our marriage and our sneakiness. And we are still very happy together – life is good!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo: Author and personal biographer, Ilil Arbel.

 

All too often, the idea of personal histories brings to mind an image of genealogical research, or a tedious list of dates, places and events. Perhaps a family tree, with some pictures of family members pasted on it. This is the wrong idea. Personal histories are the most exciting stories in the world – stories that mirror people’s lives and souls. They are true stories, sometimes heart-wrenching, sometimes hilariously funny, tales of the deepest human interest.

Everyone has a story. This unique, valuable tale expresses the thoughts, feelings, and events of an individual life. No one else can tell it – the deeply personal circumstances, the joys, the sorrows, the adventures can only be expressed by the person who has experienced them. You could write it yourself if you enjoy writing, and if not, you could share it with a personal historian. Working together, you will make this priceless information available to your family, friends, and perhaps – who knows?  Even to a larger audience. Many personal biographies have been published with great success.

Do you believe that only celebrities should have their memories preserved and published? So many people make this mistake! To those who love you, your story is more meaningful, personal, and exciting than the repetitive biographies of movie stars or political figures. Your biography, prepared and printed as a beautiful book, or preserved as a video, is a permanent legacy that will enrich your own life and stay with your family forever.

A book can be a very beautiful object, ready to send out to family and friends. It must be well written, illustrated with photographs, and professionally produced. A daunting project? Not really! Done in easy steps, this is the system that I, and some other personal historians, tend to follow. 

1. The client and the personal historian meet and talk about the project, and then a contract is signed by the two parties. Contracts vary a great deal. In my case, and in the case of other personal historians, the client pays a flat fee, and all publishing expenses are paid by the personal historian.

2. Over a few meetings, the client and the personal historian meet and record their conversations. Or, alternatively, the personal historian can supply the client with a fun questionnaire, aimed to prod the memory, if the client prefers writing to recording. Sometimes the two methods are combined. 

3. The personal historian turns the memories into a manuscript, combining the client’s voice and personality with the personal historian’s professional writing skill and style. Plenty of time is needed for that step – the personal historian normally spends at least ten hours to each hour of recording! Then, the book is submitted the client’s approval.

4. The book is published by the above-mentioned print-on-demand publisher. Stored electronically, it will never go out of print or require a second edition. The publisher will print as many or as few books as the client wishes, so the client never invests large sums in a huge edition at a vanity press.

5. These books can be either soft cover or hardcover, depending on the client’s preference. The client receives a few free books. Since this becomes a real trade book, he or she can order additional copies directly from the publisher, Borders.com Barnesandnoble.com, or Amazon.com.

Alternatively, I sometimes create a shorter, basic version of a personal biography in the form of a booklet, with about ten pages and up to five photographs. It can become the core of a permanent scrapbook – another form of preserving memories. They can very nicely complement each other. This version is produced in-house in a desktop publishing format, and bound in a way that allows the person to remove the pages easily and photocopy as many booklets as he or she wishes. Well and good, you say. But why bother? Would it really matter ten, twenty, fifty years from now? Yes, it would. It would matter a great deal. Unfortunately, many senior citizens or their families do not realize it until it is too late, and reaching the public, explaining the need, is not always easy. Recently I attended a meeting of the New York members of the Association of Personal Historians. A varied and interesting group, they impressed me with their keen judgment regarding reaching the public. The entire group agreed that the only way to reach people is to make them realize the horrible loss, the regret, and the sorrow, of not being able to record their parents’ or grandparents’ memories. Can you really tolerate the feeling that you could have had this priceless treasure trove of family history, adventure, life itself, and did not do so when you had the chance?

One of the members told us about a videotape he made of his grandmother. It was a wonderful record. Years later, after the grandmother already passed away, the man and his mother sat down to watch the priceless tape – only to realize, to their horror, that most of it was accidentally recorded over by the mother! Her reaction was heart breaking. She said, quietly: “I will never forgive myself.”

Can you forgive yourself if you had the chance to preserve the memories, and you have not done so? For your children, your nephews and nieces, anyone in your extended family down the generations. This is why so many personal historians see their work as a mission.  How does one become a personal historian? There are as many answers as the number of people who do it. Of course, the easiest way is to tell about it is discussing my own experience.

I am a writer. I have written in many fields, including fiction, natural history, medicine, business writing, fiction, and children writing. But my favorite kind of writing is biography, oral history, and tales. One of my previous books was a biography of the hilosopher Maimonides. Currently, I am working on a biography of Hillel the Elder. I am also a regular contributor to Encyclopedia Mythica, an award-winning, on-line encyclopedia of myth and folklore. I have written numerous articles for them on Judaic myths. In addition, I retold various folktales that were told to me over the years by individuals who did not want them lost, but could not write them or publish them on their own. I feel that preserving these tales, memories, and oral histories is a privilege and a joy. One of my greatest treasures was the body of stories my mother told me, since my earliest childhood, about her own childhood in Siberia. Being a story hound, I never could have enough of it and always demanded more. The touching tale of her brother Sasha, who planted a lemon seed that floated in his tea, was always very poignant to me. Sasha succumbed to a deadly childhood illness, and his dying wish was that his family, who planned to immigrate to Israel, would take his tiny lemon tree and plant it in an Israeli orchard. The family indeed immigrated to Israel, carrying the little lemon tree on the Trans-Siberian line in cattle trains. They faced serious dangers, such as being shot by Manchurian officials, contagious diseases that had no cure in 1919, chasing a runaway train, being stranded in Shanghai and facing arrest in Egypt. This was a yearlong journey of harrowing experiences and great hopes.

Twenty years ago I persuaded my mother to write a few notes so that the story will not die. I was afraid I might forget something. Surprisingly, I never forgot anything. Every word she ever told me, and she was an extraordinary storyteller, was imprinted on my memory. Between the oral tales and the notes, I had everything needed for a good story. One night I reread the notes, quietly jotted down points from the oral stories, and realized that the tiny lemon tree provided a thread that could give me a book. And so I finally had my story. All that remained to worry about were the family photographs. I had the opportunity to learn how to scan and repair the wonderful old pictures in my albums through Photoshop. Once this was accomplished, I had a finished book. It was published, and happily it was well received and had some very encouraging reviews.  People saw it, and suddenly a lot of information started reaching me from both the US and Israel, telling me that other individuals were doing something very similar – writing family histories. In Israel it mostly, though not exclusively, deals with memories of Holocaust survivors. In America it can be anything at all; there is so much exciting personal history in this country, experienced by such a diverse and dynamic population, waiting to be told. And one day a friend e-mailed me the URL for the website of the Association of Personal Historians. One look and my fate was sealed. I joined and became a personal historian. More than anything else, this work spoke to me because I have a strong sense of the glory of everyday experience. I do not believe that there is such a thing as a boring or an uninspiring life.

Think about the biographies published every day about movie stars, athletes, and political figures. Undoubtedly, they are often well researched and beautifully written. But how repetitive the stories are! The climb to fame is very much the same in all fields. Staying on top in the movie industry or sports is a tale that rarely changes. On the other hand, the lives of ordinary people are completely unique. Following a myriad of professions, lifestyles, religions, and hobbies. Living in towns, villages, cities, and rural areas. Having journeyed, escaped, immigrated, invented a cookie recipe, rescued dogs and cats, created a quilt, built a house, painted pictures, played chess with a chimp – the list is endless. All lives are diverse, dynamic, and exciting. I will never forget a story I heard from an elderly woman, a relative of a friend. She was well dressed, beautifully groomed, charming. I knew nothing about her but she seemed cultured and financially comfortable. I would have never guessed the story of her youth. I am not sure if this happened during the twenties or the thirties. She was orphaned when she was eighteen years old, and somehow no money at all was left when her parents died. She was entirely alone in the world, and few careers were open to young women at that time. In addition, this gently brought-up young girl was not educated in any skill that could have supported her at such a young age. Sure, she had her piano and painting lessons, and went to a normal school, but where would this get her? And yet she was proud, independent, and determined to support herself. Finally she found a job at a meat packing plant. Her story detailed a scene of grisly horror. She had to stick her hands into huge carcasses to extricate certain organs. She had to deal with large buckets of blood. All day long she had to smell the revolting products needed for the creation of sausages, mixed with the scent of blood and flesh. “No wonder,” she said quietly, smiling at my horror-stricken eyes, “that I became a life-long vegetarian.” How did she get out of this predicament? What events turned the tide for her? I don’t know and never will and it haunts me. What a pity that this woman’s memories are not properly recorded. What a book this could have made.