Ilana Lindenblatt

So, as I said, even if not for the cancer, inevitabilities. I called her back the next day and asked if maybe now was a good time for me to write her father's story. So here it is. An old Jewish story about the Holocaust and a man who somehow survived the pernicious, organized, and intentional genocide of the Jews. But right behind it, just two generations later, is another story.

So, as I said, even if not for the cancer, inevitabilities. I called her back the next day and asked if maybe now was a good time for me to write her father's story. So here it is. An old Jewish story about the Holocaust and a man who somehow survived the pernicious, organized, and intentional genocide of the Jews. But right behind it, just two generations later, is another story.

One about the children and grandchildren who have been so malformed by the stories that are their lineage that some of them made just as eager work of running from it, only to find themselves, same as anything you run from, having to deal with it anyway. The Holocaust arrived in Budapest in 1944, where it stayed for a comparatively short nine months.

One about the children and grandchildren who have been so malformed by the stories that are their lineage that some of them made just as eager work of running from it, only to find themselves, same as anything you run from, having to deal with it anyway. The Holocaust arrived in Budapest in 1944, where it stayed for a comparatively short nine months.

Mr. Lindenblatt remembers the day he saw the train arrive at the station, decked out with swastika flags and all kinds of fancy things. It was March 19th. He was six, and he lived near the train station. Suddenly, all around, there were posters that announced that Jews over the age of seven had to start wearing yellow stars.

Mr. Lindenblatt remembers the day he saw the train arrive at the station, decked out with swastika flags and all kinds of fancy things. It was March 19th. He was six, and he lived near the train station. Suddenly, all around, there were posters that announced that Jews over the age of seven had to start wearing yellow stars.

The Jews had a good life in Budapest, or what counts for a good life for Jews in Europe around that time. There were some hate crimes, yes, and a quota system for allowing Jews into universities. And sure, there were the random incidents like targeted beatings in the street and at school that allowed him to grow up understanding that Jews were generally and more or less universally loathed.

The Jews had a good life in Budapest, or what counts for a good life for Jews in Europe around that time. There were some hate crimes, yes, and a quota system for allowing Jews into universities. And sure, there were the random incidents like targeted beatings in the street and at school that allowed him to grow up understanding that Jews were generally and more or less universally loathed.

But it was nothing compared with what they were hearing about in the rest of Europe. The Jews of Budapest lived in the tension of this is how it has always been. So old and ongoing has anti-Semitism been? And this is the answer no one seems to understand to, but why didn't you leave? Mr. Lindenblatt had two brothers. He would have one more after the war ended. They were sent to a Jewish school.

But it was nothing compared with what they were hearing about in the rest of Europe. The Jews of Budapest lived in the tension of this is how it has always been. So old and ongoing has anti-Semitism been? And this is the answer no one seems to understand to, but why didn't you leave? Mr. Lindenblatt had two brothers. He would have one more after the war ended. They were sent to a Jewish school.

Their grandfather on their mother's side had been a rabbi. Mr. Lindenblatt's father was a cheese wholesaler, and he did well. He had a horse and carriage to make deliveries. His mother was religious, but made the arts a priority, too. She went to the theater, and she treasured her copy of a play called The Tragedy of Man by Imre Modac.

Their grandfather on their mother's side had been a rabbi. Mr. Lindenblatt's father was a cheese wholesaler, and he did well. He had a horse and carriage to make deliveries. His mother was religious, but made the arts a priority, too. She went to the theater, and she treasured her copy of a play called The Tragedy of Man by Imre Modac.

It was December when I visited Mr. Lindenblatt, and he had prepared for me this very copy and directed Alana to give it to me. He asked me to read the last line out loud. so I did. It read, The Lord says, O man, strive on, strive on, have faith and trust.

It was December when I visited Mr. Lindenblatt, and he had prepared for me this very copy and directed Alana to give it to me. He asked me to read the last line out loud. so I did. It read, The Lord says, O man, strive on, strive on, have faith and trust.

That was my mother's motto, he said from the couch in the living room of the house in Manhattan Beach in Brooklyn, where he raised his family and where they continue to live now. He was still tall and lanky, what my grandmother would have called in Yiddish a langa lakshan, a long noodle, though he'd gone from thin to too skinny.

That was my mother's motto, he said from the couch in the living room of the house in Manhattan Beach in Brooklyn, where he raised his family and where they continue to live now. He was still tall and lanky, what my grandmother would have called in Yiddish a langa lakshan, a long noodle, though he'd gone from thin to too skinny.

But his illness hadn't affected his smiliness, nor had it diminished his cheer. He wore a baseball cap and the coat that was part of the uniform of the Jewish Ambulance Service, where he volunteered as an EMT for the last 40 years, until his failing health finally slowed him down. He wanted me to take the book and read it. He wanted me to understand everything.

But his illness hadn't affected his smiliness, nor had it diminished his cheer. He wore a baseball cap and the coat that was part of the uniform of the Jewish Ambulance Service, where he volunteered as an EMT for the last 40 years, until his failing health finally slowed him down. He wanted me to take the book and read it. He wanted me to understand everything.

Around him were artifacts he collected over the years, magazines and photocopies that discuss or even just mention what happened in Budapest. A book he sent home with me called Daily Life During the Holocaust, which sat unopened on my desk while I worked on this article, because no thank you. A cardboard box that was literally marked Holocaust. He had been telling his story for years.

Around him were artifacts he collected over the years, magazines and photocopies that discuss or even just mention what happened in Budapest. A book he sent home with me called Daily Life During the Holocaust, which sat unopened on my desk while I worked on this article, because no thank you. A cardboard box that was literally marked Holocaust. He had been telling his story for years.