A Precious Plaid Blanket

Aviva Tkatsch (Thatch)-Sandler

From: "Smuggled in Potato Sacks
Fifty Stories of the Hidden Children of the Kaunas Ghetto"

Editid by Solomon Abramovich and Yakov Zilberg, 2011


My father was one of the five children of Leib and Rhoda Tkatsch. Isaac, the oldest, had emigrated to Mexico at the age of 17, and Pesach, the youngest, had been killed in Palestine while guarding a Jewish settlement. Moshe, Sarah, and my father Benesh remained in Kaunas. My maternal grandmother, Emma Efron, was originally from Vilnius. She had a brother who had moved to Shanghai and a sister living in Sweden; I believe that she moved to Kaunas and was waiting to hear from her sister about emigrating to Sweden. In Kaunas, she met and married my grandfather. They had two children, my mother Riva and my uncle Shmuel. Mother was 4 years old when my grandfather died and my grandmother went to work in a textile store to support the family. There were no other family members in Kaunas, and it was a very difficult and isolated life for the three of them.
Father, who was ten years older than my mother, had been educated as an attorney, but went into business as a textile importer. He met my mother when she was 14; she lied about her age, and by the time he found out that she was so much younger, they had developed an attachment. He took her under his wing, introduced her to the Maccabi sports group, helped her with her homework, and became her mentor and eventually her husband. My parents were married at the end of May 1941. Grandmother Emma had remarried just before my mother and father were married, her second husband and his four sons did not survive the war.
Mother said that she and Father were on their honeymoon at a cottage in the country and heard that the Germans were about to occupy Lithuania. They quickly returned to Kaunas to be with the rest of the family. In the ghetto they moved in with father’s family. Many people were living at close quarters; I think it was very difficult for my mother to live with so many people.
When she discovered she was pregnant with me, it was a mixed blessing. I was born on 4 March 1942. It was spring and my Zionists parents gave me the hopeful name of Aviva (‘Aviv’means ‘Spring’ in Hebrew).
There were many ‘actions’ when children were taken. My aunt Sarah and her child were taken during one of these ‘actions’ and never heard from again. My parents told me that there was a hiding place made under a sofa, big enough for my mother and me, and when there were rumours of ‘actions’, we were hidden there. I have no idea how my mother kept me quiet for hours, but I know that now I panic if I have a blanket over my face. We lived like this for two years.
As time went by, it became increasingly clear that over time all the Jews were going to be killed; it was imperative for my parents to get me out. I remember my parents telling me that they had a discussion about what would happen if they did not return for me. Wouldn’t it be ironic if I were raised to be an anti-Semite? Of course, the desire to save me won out, and they began to look for someone who could be trusted to save a Jewish child. They found a woman who was willing to take me. She ran a boarding house for college girls in a nearby town. I was sedated, placed in a sack and loaded into a wagon under a pile of hay. When I found myself in a strange place, with people speaking a foreign language, I was very upset and cried and raged. Since there was a lot of coming and going in the house, the woman, Letulene, became frightened. Assisting Jews was punishable by death and she felt she had to find another place for me to stay because everyone in the house was in danger.
She gathered some of the girls together and told them that she would take me to a field at a certain time and leave me there. She pleaded that one of them should take me and find a safe place for me; she did it in this manner because she did not want to know who took me and where I went. That way, if she were interrogated, she would have nothing to tell the Germans. One of the girls (or maybe more than one) came to the field, and she took me home to her family’s farm. When she appeared with a child, her parents said to her, ‘Do you know what you have done to us? You have put all our lives in jeopardy.’
However, they were kind people and took me in. I came with very few things: an unusual plaid blanket that my father had brought back from one of his trips to England, a few clothes, a hairclip that my mother had created out of different coloured electric wires, and a picture of my parents. Having been given away twice, I was traumatized and very meek for a while. At that time I only spoke Yiddish, but learned to speak Lithuanian very soon. I was fortunate in those circumstances to have blondish hair, small features, and green eyes. I was introduced to the community as some distant relative, christened Vitute, and connected to these very loving and brave people. I called the woman ‘Mamyte’.

As it became clear that the war was ending, a Jewish Soviet soldier appeared at the farm and said that he heard that a Jewish child lived there; he wanted to take me to his family after the war ended. My foster-parents told him that they would only give me back to my parents, the people in the picture I brought to them. If my parents did not return, they would continue to raise me.

After the liberation, my mother and grandmother, who had escaped from Stutthof together and were in hiding for several months, split up. Grandmother was to go to Kaunas and find me, and my mother went to Lodz, where she heard that my father had been seen. When my grandmother and my uncle, Moshe, went to Letuliene’s house, no one knew where I was or if I was even alive. In despair, my grandmother went to the farmers’ market in that town to look for something to eat. As she was wandering around, she suddenly was struck by the sight of a woman who was wearing a jacket that was the same unusual plaid wool as my blanket. She rushed up to the woman and demanded to know where the child, who came with that blanket, was living. The woman brought them to the farm and my grandmother became hysterical when she saw me.

I was in no rush to go with her, and the family was reluctant to let me go with her. Only after she asked about the picture of my parents, and if they had ever seen the wire hairclip, did they believe she was my grandmother and let me go with her. Grandmother returned with me and reunited with uncle’s Moshe family, Peshele, aunt Dvora, and whoever else was living there.

I was told that soon after Grandmother came for me, I became very ill. They thought that I had meningitis and might die. Suddenly there was a knock on the door, and it was Mamyte. She had a dream that I was very sick and she walked for miles to find me and bring me some medicine that had helped me in the past; I recovered with remarkable speed. In my analysis, it was thought that what I actually experienced was 'marasmus', a deep childhood depression. The sight and sound and kisses of Mamyte brought me out of the depression and I began to thrive again.

Once I was well and papers were obtained, my grandmother took me by train to meet my parents. I do not remember the reunion. I know I was given a big doll and told that everything was fine now that we were all together. In rural Europe at that time many crossroads had crosses and a pile of stones, and I insisted that we stop at each one so that I could pray. It drove my mother crazy. They found a priest who sat with me and explained that I was now with my real family, I was Jewish, and didn’t need to pray at every crossroad.

Our family went to a Displaced Persons camp, St Ottilion, a former monastery, to recover. Father had a terrible skin condition. My mother was and remained very nervous and suspicious. I played with the few other children, and learned to be Jewish again. I remember that a lot of people there would look at me and cry. It took years before I understood they were mourning their own dead children, sisters, brothers. I did not realize it at the time, but my parents, at my mother’s urging, cut off any communication with my Lithuanian foster-family. They were not to be mentioned; that part of my life was over. It was more subtle than that, but the message was very clear.

After Father’s health had improved, he chose to stay in Munich, Germany for several years. He felt a need to help run an ORT programme that helped young men who had been robbed of their education to learn trades and have a means of support. During the time in Munich my sister Rhoda was born. Also, during that time my father visited Palestine and his brother’s grave.

He came back with the realization that he could not live in that climate with his skin condition and Mother also refused to go to a place where there was a very good chance of another war. While my father was directing the ORT School, several Americans, who were collecting money to fund this type of endeavour and help European Jewry, came to see how their money was used. Some gave my father their business cards and told him that they would have employment for him if he chose to come to Detroit, Michigan or Phoenix, Arizona.

My parents had never intended to stay in Germany forever. They looked at a map of the USA and saw that the climate in Detroit was similar to that of Kaunas. They saw the great lakes surrounding the state and felt that this would be the place they could settle and raise a family.

We emigrated to the USA in 1949, and after a short stay in New York and Philadelphia, we came to Detroit. The Holtzman and Silverman Co., true to their word, gave my father work. He stayed with them for his whole working life, starting as a field construction management trainee and ending his career as a highly respected vice-president of the company. He appeared to adjust to our new life. He was very charming to everyone, and all the people he dealt with on a routine basis became his friends.

Mother had a much harder time. She was a nervous, bordering on paranoid, individual. There was always tension in our home. I think she lost all trust in the basic goodness of people as a result of her war experience. ‘Neighbours could turn you in, don’t talk to people about anything personal. Don’t trust anyone,’ she would say. My brother Leonard (Leib) was born in 1956. Right around that time, my mother began teaching ‘after school’ Hebrew classes and going to college to finish her degree. Teaching was her area of competence. When a Hebrew day school opened, she was recruited to teach at our synagogue. People stop me on the street almost weekly, to tell me that my mother was the best teacher they ever had. She retired at age 80. Most of the community had been her students at one time or another. We rapidly moved from one neighbourhood in the Detroit area to another until we ended up in a lovely area.

I married Robert Sandler in 1962 and we lived in Cambridge, Mass., while he attended Law School at Harvard. We returned to Detroit to settle and raise our family of three children. I returned to college for an advanced degree in Clinical Social Work. I have often worked with children of survivors.

My mother now lives in a Alzheimer’s Disease care facility. She is completely incoherent, but recognizes her children.

About sixteen years ago my parents asked me to come over. They showed me a letter in Lithuanian that had been received by my cousin Peshele (Polina-Tkach-Davidson). She had sent it on to them and they had sat with it for several months; Father finally convinced my mother to give it to me. It was from the college girl Konstancija Povilaikaite-Babinskiene, at the time of the letter in her 60s. She had gone to the Jewish agency that had opened in Lithuania after the break up of the USSR, looking for the little girl that her family Petras and Ona Povilaikas had taken in during the war.

Mother had written her a very short letter in reply; I have no idea what it said. She was hysterical when she read me the letter. She thought I had always wanted to go back to Lithuania to live with these people. It was useless reassuring her. She attributed some sort of evil intent to that letter. I took this letter to a friend who could read Lithuanian and dictated a return letter, explaining my mother’s nervous condition and that I was thrilled to hear from them. We corresponded for a few rounds, but my house burned down in 1996, and the address was inside.

I suppose I could have researched and recovered the information, but I was almost paralyzed by the conflict I felt. In my few communications with them I expressed my gratitude for my life and offered to help them in any way. They replied that they were in need of nothing, but had always wondered what had happened to ‘Vitute’ when she left them. There are no words that can possibly express the gratitude I feel for the love and safety that this family offered a strange child at the risk of their own lives.

When Moshe and his family came to Israel from Russia, my father and brother went to see them; Father was so excited to see his brother and the family after so many years. I went to Israel twenty-six years ago and we reunited with Peshele and her children. Peshele also came to visit Detroit. In 2008 Peshele called me to tell about this project, and I am pleased to add my story to this sadly thin pile of stories from children who survived the Kaunas Ghetto.

Detroit, USA, 2008

NB: While writing this story, I was able to re-establish contact with Konstancija Babinskiene and her daughters. We exchanged letters, emails and pictures. She died last year. One of her daughters, Virginija, was called Vytute by her family.


From "Smuggled in Potato Sacks
Fifty Stories of the Hidden Children of the Kaunas Ghetto"

Edited by Solomon Abramovich and Yakov Zilberg
First published by Vallentine Mitchell in 2011