My Name Is Not Rifka

From the author

In 1974, I met a medical student, married, and stumbled upon a story when I discovered that my mother-in-law, Rifka, was a Schindler survivor. Delving into the story became an obsession, a fathomless horror that utterly consumed me.

But here’s the wrinkle: Rifka steadfastly refused to discuss her wartime years, thwarting me at every turn. Eventually, twenty years into my marriage, she agreed to break her veil of silence, bravely dived into the labyrinth of her past, and consented to my recording her testimony. At times, it was like the slow drip of a leaky faucet; at others, it was like a tsunami.

The resulting memoir-biography is double-braided, unfolding across dual timelines that tell the story of two strong-willed women. One thread chronicles our relationship over thirty years, detailing the turbulence of the early years and the difficult journey toward forgiveness.

The second is historical and traces Rifka's tribulations from a sheltered childhood in a small shtetl in Poland to her multiple incarcerations in labor camps as a young teenager, including a salt mine and Oskar Schindler’s factory. It narrates the savagery of the Nazis through the eyes of an elderly Rifka in unflinching detail, reflecting on her experiences fifty years earlier when she was a child.

It’s a haunting account of how Rifka repeatedly escaped death by an eyelash—and of the unexpected gift she left me: a legacy rich in old-world Jewish wisdom shared during our late-night fireside chats. At times, charmingly funny, at others plainspoken and wise—but always unforgettable.