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A novel inspired by a true story of survival.
Esfir Manevich is a young Jewish girl who lives in the Polish town of Kobrin in 1936. Facing antisemitism in public school, Esfir moves in with her charming aunt who runs a boardinghouse in the bustling city of Brest. Being younger than the other boarders, Esfir struggles to find a place in her new life, all the while worrying about her diminishing role in the family she left behind. As the years pass, Esfir experiences the bombing of her hometown during the German invasion of 1939. When the Russians overtake the area, Esfir sees many of her socialist relatives and friends become disillusioned by the harsh restrictions. During the German occupation, Esfir and her family are enclosed in a ghetto where they develop heartbreaking methods of survival. In the summer of 1942, shortly before Esfir’s thirteenth birthday, the ghetto is liquidated and the inhabitants are forced onto cattle cars destined for the killing fields―and Esfir must face unimaginable horror. |
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“Using a creative, but heart-wrenching technique, Simon assumes the persona of Esfir and bears witness for her, in a history that includes Simon’s actual relatives from the same area. Through the author’s careful research, this story of the Holocaust from the viewpoint of a young girl in a community of Polish Jews comes to life. Esfir is Alive is a meaningful read for both adolescent and adult scholars of the Holocaust.” — Shawn LaTorre, Reviewer, Story Circle Book Reviews
On the Jewish Women’s Archive Reader Recommendation List.
“Esfir Is Alive is a powerful work—haunting, grave, compelling and terribly evocative. Esfir’s account of her journey toward adulthood, set against the events of WWII in the area now known as Belarus, is real and heartbreaking. The novel is full of vivid and quirky characters the reader cares about. The story is grounded in wonderful specificities about the characters’ lives. As a result, you completely believe in these people and weep over the tragedy that befalls them. Like The Diary of Anne Frank, and like all great literature, Esfir Is Alive is a story that conveys universality and truth.” — Katherine Kirkpatrick, author of Between Two Worlds and The Snow Baby
“Andrea Simon’s Esfir Is Alive will stay with me for a long time to come. Its poignant portrait of a young girl coming of age in a time of horror, is balanced with an authentic depiction of her everyday life in 1930s Poland, with a child’s dreams, concerns, fears and observations. Simon skillfully weaves in the backdrop of political, social and religious conditions, deepening the readers understanding of the complex nightmare that Esfir survives. Weaving a true story into gripping historical fiction is a skill, and Andrea Simon has mastered it.” — Barbara Stark-Nemon, author of Even in Darkness
A Cool & New read for November 2016 on teenreads.com.
“Never didactic, Simon’s characters—the charismatic Aunt Perl, astute Ida, and unprejudiced Ania—are refreshingly complex, and the prose, whether depicting a beloved doll or coffinlike cattle cars, remains unflinching and precise. Though its scope is ambitious (a span of approximately 16 years), this story, like Esfir herself, is achingly alive. An appended Yiddish glossary and discussion questions further enhance the text.” — Briana Shemroske, Booklist
“[Readers] will stay rooted in the everyday triumphs and growing pains of the narrator’s development from little girl to young lady, all while becoming more familiar with the facets of pre-Holocaust existence not often taught in class.” — School Library Journal
“Telling the story through the eyes of a child brings an incredible sensibility to the story, and makes the horrid reality of the Holocaust understandable for anyone to see.” — Rachel De Paz, Review, teenreads.com
“A personal story for Andrea Simon, who can trace her ancestry to near Esfir’s quaint but war-torn Belorussian village, there is heartbreak and hope, along with the determination that those lost will never be forgotten.” — Foreword Reviews
“This novel admirably and passionately attempts to reconstruct the lost world of pre-war Jewish Poland and the experiences of real-life survivor Esfir Manevich.” — AJL Reviews
“Told in the first person, the majority of the book takes place before the family is forced into the ghetto, and vivid details give an absorbing picture of Jewish life in Polish towns in the late ’30s. Some of the minor characters were drawn from the author’s own family . . . . I was glad to learn about a facet of the Shoah I knew little about.” — B.J. Sedlock, Historical Novel Society
“Simon has created a three-dimensional tragic heroine who herself is spared, but who stands for all the others who perished.” — Reviewed by Helen Schary Motro, Esra Magazine
“Once again Andrea Simon has given us a work of power and poignancy as she narrates the story of a young girl caught up in turmoil of pre-war Poland and then in the dual occupations of the Soviet Union and of Nazi Germany. Her writing is crisp and moving. Her grasp of history is assured and her sensitivity to the historical turmoil as experienced by a young girl is pronounced. Enter this world of darkness, grief and loss with young Esfir and you will experience the depth of evil and the travails of human endurance. The power with which Andrea Simon brings Esfir and her era back to life will only magnify your sense of loss for the world that was and the people who were murdered in the Shoah.” — Michael Berenbaum, Director, Sigi Ziering Institute: Exploring the Ethical and Religious Implications of the Holocaust and Professor of Jewish Studies, American Jewish University, Los Angeles, California; former President of the Survivors of the Shoah Visual History Foundation
On the Jewish Women’s Archive Reader Recommendation List.
“Esfir Is Alive is a powerful work—haunting, grave, compelling and terribly evocative. Esfir’s account of her journey toward adulthood, set against the events of WWII in the area now known as Belarus, is real and heartbreaking. The novel is full of vivid and quirky characters the reader cares about. The story is grounded in wonderful specificities about the characters’ lives. As a result, you completely believe in these people and weep over the tragedy that befalls them. Like The Diary of Anne Frank, and like all great literature, Esfir Is Alive is a story that conveys universality and truth.” — Katherine Kirkpatrick, author of Between Two Worlds and The Snow Baby
“Andrea Simon’s Esfir Is Alive will stay with me for a long time to come. Its poignant portrait of a young girl coming of age in a time of horror, is balanced with an authentic depiction of her everyday life in 1930s Poland, with a child’s dreams, concerns, fears and observations. Simon skillfully weaves in the backdrop of political, social and religious conditions, deepening the readers understanding of the complex nightmare that Esfir survives. Weaving a true story into gripping historical fiction is a skill, and Andrea Simon has mastered it.” — Barbara Stark-Nemon, author of Even in Darkness
A Cool & New read for November 2016 on teenreads.com.
“Never didactic, Simon’s characters—the charismatic Aunt Perl, astute Ida, and unprejudiced Ania—are refreshingly complex, and the prose, whether depicting a beloved doll or coffinlike cattle cars, remains unflinching and precise. Though its scope is ambitious (a span of approximately 16 years), this story, like Esfir herself, is achingly alive. An appended Yiddish glossary and discussion questions further enhance the text.” — Briana Shemroske, Booklist
“[Readers] will stay rooted in the everyday triumphs and growing pains of the narrator’s development from little girl to young lady, all while becoming more familiar with the facets of pre-Holocaust existence not often taught in class.” — School Library Journal
“Telling the story through the eyes of a child brings an incredible sensibility to the story, and makes the horrid reality of the Holocaust understandable for anyone to see.” — Rachel De Paz, Review, teenreads.com
“A personal story for Andrea Simon, who can trace her ancestry to near Esfir’s quaint but war-torn Belorussian village, there is heartbreak and hope, along with the determination that those lost will never be forgotten.” — Foreword Reviews
“This novel admirably and passionately attempts to reconstruct the lost world of pre-war Jewish Poland and the experiences of real-life survivor Esfir Manevich.” — AJL Reviews
“Told in the first person, the majority of the book takes place before the family is forced into the ghetto, and vivid details give an absorbing picture of Jewish life in Polish towns in the late ’30s. Some of the minor characters were drawn from the author’s own family . . . . I was glad to learn about a facet of the Shoah I knew little about.” — B.J. Sedlock, Historical Novel Society
“Simon has created a three-dimensional tragic heroine who herself is spared, but who stands for all the others who perished.” — Reviewed by Helen Schary Motro, Esra Magazine
“Once again Andrea Simon has given us a work of power and poignancy as she narrates the story of a young girl caught up in turmoil of pre-war Poland and then in the dual occupations of the Soviet Union and of Nazi Germany. Her writing is crisp and moving. Her grasp of history is assured and her sensitivity to the historical turmoil as experienced by a young girl is pronounced. Enter this world of darkness, grief and loss with young Esfir and you will experience the depth of evil and the travails of human endurance. The power with which Andrea Simon brings Esfir and her era back to life will only magnify your sense of loss for the world that was and the people who were murdered in the Shoah.” — Michael Berenbaum, Director, Sigi Ziering Institute: Exploring the Ethical and Religious Implications of the Holocaust and Professor of Jewish Studies, American Jewish University, Los Angeles, California; former President of the Survivors of the Shoah Visual History Foundation
THE PUBLIC PRIMARY school that I attended was a two-story complex of white stone buildings, partially offset by a picket fence and flanked by large oak trees, and named after the famous Polish leader Józef Pilsudski. There were about forty students in my class, including ten Jews. We sat at long wooden desks, about eight students packed in a row, plus there were a few two-student desks in the front. The buildings were cold and draughty, though shafts of rectangular window light warmed our arms if we sat in their direct path. Even on a day like this, a Saturday in early November 1936, most children, including me, wore sweaters.
Although the Jewish students were required to go to school on Shabbes, they didn’t have to write. Remaining with their hands folded was enough to show the others that they were different, but the Jewish kids knew they had to be quiet, too. They tried to blend in with the other dark-headed students, forming a kind of Semitic humming chorus, attending the Catholic morning prayers and religious classes.
All, that is, except for me. At seven, I was next to the youngest of the Jewish students. I was thin and pale, with blond hair and blue eyes, and the priest sometimes confused me with being Polish, as if it were a compliment. But I always fingered my silver Star of David necklace that my father buffed every Sunday night when he polished everything else in the house that was worthy of a shine. It wasn’t only my looks that made me stand out from the other Jewish students; it was the fact that I never quite learned to keep my mouth shut. And that included singing the Catholic hymns, which I only understood this morning not to do when the priest walked down the aisle, stopped in front of me, and, with his bible, slapped me on the head.
If they were lucky, students brought lunch, including dark bread with butter, cheese, or a hard-boiled egg. And if it wasn’t too cold, they sometimes ate in the fenced-in yard, under the mammoth oak trees. The boys often threw acorns at each other.
On this day, one of the Jewish boys, Berl, had fallen asleep sitting on a bench in the yard after eating his lunch. He woke up when a group of Polish and Belorussian boys pinned down his arms. One of them, from a higher grade, took out a bottle of ink and a brush and painted a cross on Berl’s shirt, while another boy, whom I recognized as the bus driver’s son, Feliks, stuffed crumpled paper in Berl’s large bat-shaped ears. Berl coughed and sputtered, finally spitting on Feliks who punched him in the nose. Blood spurted down Berl’s face onto his white shirt, and the boys disappeared as quickly as cabbage-stuffed rabbits chased by a nap-awoken gardener.
I was standing on the other end of the yard and ran over to Berl. Taking my sweater that had been draped around my shoulders, I offered him a sleeve to wipe the blood from his face. Berl started to cry and snot leaked from his nose. I cringed when he rubbed it onto my brown woolen sweater sleeve. When Berl seemed able to stand, I returned to my original spot where I had left my notebook. All over the cover, there was ink, the same blue-black color that was on Berl’s shirt. Instead of the boys, though, a half-dozen Polish girls stood in a small circle, pointing at me, singsonging, “the Jew girl,” and cackling like witches.
Determined not to show them I cared, I took the sweater I had lent Berl and, with the clean sleeve, swiped my notebook cover. Now I had one sleeve red with blood and the other stained with ink. I managed to last the rest of the day, but as soon as school was over, I ran home, looking over my shoulder every few minutes, not sure if I expected the bullying boys or the girls to follow me. I knew one thing: I never wanted to set foot in that school again.
When I got home, I walked into the parlor and my mother let out a scream, “Esfir Manevich, what happened to you?” She rushed to my side and rubbed her hand over my reddened sleeve. “What is this? Is it blood?”
“Yes, but it’s not mine.”
“Not yours? Did you hurt someone?”
“No!” I screamed, and scampered up the stairs to the attic room I shared with my two sisters, Rivke and Drora. Out of breath, my mother came up behind me and peeled the sweater from my body and ran her fingers along the sweater’s grooves. “This sleeve doesn’t look like blood,” she said, holding her thumb to her nose. “Is this ink?”
“Don’t you want to know who I spilled ink on?” I said, swearing to myself that I wasn’t going to tell my mother the truth.
“When your father comes home, he will get to the bottom of this, even if he has to go to your school.”
My mother knew the right words, and I began to cry, not in a snotty, sobbing way like Berl, but in a quiet, soft manner as if my tear ducts were leaking on their own accord. My mother gave a half-smile and I told her the whole story of Berl and the boys and the witch-like girls, and even the behavior of the priest.
“I am sorry, Esfir, that you had to endure this. I am proud that you helped Berl, but the next time, you have to ignore these children. You can’t draw attention to yourself. You can’t even sing in church. You could get expelled from school, and worse can happen to our family.”
Worse? What could happen to them? Could my family go to prison if I sang glory to God, a god that wasn’t Jewish?
I decided that I wouldn’t admit to my mother that these same girls had taunted me before. I had tried to sit away from them, but last week they caught me near the trash can, and one girl reached inside and grabbed a rotten apple and smushed it into my face. The next day, the girls called me, “Apple Sauce,” and that became their regular name for me. And what I would never confess even to my sisters is that the third day they called me Apple Sauce, I hid in the woods after school and threw an apple at their feet as they walked down the road. They didn’t see me and squealed. I heard one of them say, “That must have been little Casmir.” It disturbed me that they thought they were being pursued by a boy, but I controlled myself and ran home, remembering how my uncle was badly beaten in his bakery because he spoke out against a man comparing him to “Jewish lice.”
Although the Jewish students were required to go to school on Shabbes, they didn’t have to write. Remaining with their hands folded was enough to show the others that they were different, but the Jewish kids knew they had to be quiet, too. They tried to blend in with the other dark-headed students, forming a kind of Semitic humming chorus, attending the Catholic morning prayers and religious classes.
All, that is, except for me. At seven, I was next to the youngest of the Jewish students. I was thin and pale, with blond hair and blue eyes, and the priest sometimes confused me with being Polish, as if it were a compliment. But I always fingered my silver Star of David necklace that my father buffed every Sunday night when he polished everything else in the house that was worthy of a shine. It wasn’t only my looks that made me stand out from the other Jewish students; it was the fact that I never quite learned to keep my mouth shut. And that included singing the Catholic hymns, which I only understood this morning not to do when the priest walked down the aisle, stopped in front of me, and, with his bible, slapped me on the head.
If they were lucky, students brought lunch, including dark bread with butter, cheese, or a hard-boiled egg. And if it wasn’t too cold, they sometimes ate in the fenced-in yard, under the mammoth oak trees. The boys often threw acorns at each other.
On this day, one of the Jewish boys, Berl, had fallen asleep sitting on a bench in the yard after eating his lunch. He woke up when a group of Polish and Belorussian boys pinned down his arms. One of them, from a higher grade, took out a bottle of ink and a brush and painted a cross on Berl’s shirt, while another boy, whom I recognized as the bus driver’s son, Feliks, stuffed crumpled paper in Berl’s large bat-shaped ears. Berl coughed and sputtered, finally spitting on Feliks who punched him in the nose. Blood spurted down Berl’s face onto his white shirt, and the boys disappeared as quickly as cabbage-stuffed rabbits chased by a nap-awoken gardener.
I was standing on the other end of the yard and ran over to Berl. Taking my sweater that had been draped around my shoulders, I offered him a sleeve to wipe the blood from his face. Berl started to cry and snot leaked from his nose. I cringed when he rubbed it onto my brown woolen sweater sleeve. When Berl seemed able to stand, I returned to my original spot where I had left my notebook. All over the cover, there was ink, the same blue-black color that was on Berl’s shirt. Instead of the boys, though, a half-dozen Polish girls stood in a small circle, pointing at me, singsonging, “the Jew girl,” and cackling like witches.
Determined not to show them I cared, I took the sweater I had lent Berl and, with the clean sleeve, swiped my notebook cover. Now I had one sleeve red with blood and the other stained with ink. I managed to last the rest of the day, but as soon as school was over, I ran home, looking over my shoulder every few minutes, not sure if I expected the bullying boys or the girls to follow me. I knew one thing: I never wanted to set foot in that school again.
When I got home, I walked into the parlor and my mother let out a scream, “Esfir Manevich, what happened to you?” She rushed to my side and rubbed her hand over my reddened sleeve. “What is this? Is it blood?”
“Yes, but it’s not mine.”
“Not yours? Did you hurt someone?”
“No!” I screamed, and scampered up the stairs to the attic room I shared with my two sisters, Rivke and Drora. Out of breath, my mother came up behind me and peeled the sweater from my body and ran her fingers along the sweater’s grooves. “This sleeve doesn’t look like blood,” she said, holding her thumb to her nose. “Is this ink?”
“Don’t you want to know who I spilled ink on?” I said, swearing to myself that I wasn’t going to tell my mother the truth.
“When your father comes home, he will get to the bottom of this, even if he has to go to your school.”
My mother knew the right words, and I began to cry, not in a snotty, sobbing way like Berl, but in a quiet, soft manner as if my tear ducts were leaking on their own accord. My mother gave a half-smile and I told her the whole story of Berl and the boys and the witch-like girls, and even the behavior of the priest.
“I am sorry, Esfir, that you had to endure this. I am proud that you helped Berl, but the next time, you have to ignore these children. You can’t draw attention to yourself. You can’t even sing in church. You could get expelled from school, and worse can happen to our family.”
Worse? What could happen to them? Could my family go to prison if I sang glory to God, a god that wasn’t Jewish?
I decided that I wouldn’t admit to my mother that these same girls had taunted me before. I had tried to sit away from them, but last week they caught me near the trash can, and one girl reached inside and grabbed a rotten apple and smushed it into my face. The next day, the girls called me, “Apple Sauce,” and that became their regular name for me. And what I would never confess even to my sisters is that the third day they called me Apple Sauce, I hid in the woods after school and threw an apple at their feet as they walked down the road. They didn’t see me and squealed. I heard one of them say, “That must have been little Casmir.” It disturbed me that they thought they were being pursued by a boy, but I controlled myself and ran home, remembering how my uncle was badly beaten in his bakery because he spoke out against a man comparing him to “Jewish lice.”
Book Clubs & Reading Groups Discussion Guide
From the Author
The inspiration for this book comes from my memoir: Bashert: A Granddaughter’s Holocaust Quest, published in 2002 by the University Press of Mississippi and republished in 2019 as a paperback by Vallentine Mitchell, a personal journey investigating my ancestral Belorussian village and the events leading to he death of my relatives. Esfir Is Alive carries many of the same themes and characters, broadening them into a novelized arena. I was most interested in exploring the rich intellectual and social life of the Jews of Eastern Europe in the interwar years, as well as the psychological impact of extraordinary events on the life and survival of a young person.
The inspiration for this book comes from my memoir: Bashert: A Granddaughter’s Holocaust Quest, published in 2002 by the University Press of Mississippi and republished in 2019 as a paperback by Vallentine Mitchell, a personal journey investigating my ancestral Belorussian village and the events leading to he death of my relatives. Esfir Is Alive carries many of the same themes and characters, broadening them into a novelized arena. I was most interested in exploring the rich intellectual and social life of the Jews of Eastern Europe in the interwar years, as well as the psychological impact of extraordinary events on the life and survival of a young person.
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Discussion Questions
1. Why does the author choose to open the book with the quote by I.L. Peretz: “I’ll make you listen to me! You will have to hear me!”? 2. Esfir was a young girl when she experienced antisemitism in her school. What effect did it have on her? With today’s global influence of social media, how has Esfir’s story corrected misinformation about Jewish life before and during the Holocaust? 3. Both Ida and Esfir depend on their Journal of Important Words to express their thoughts and feelings. Do you have a similar creative outlet? 4. Esfir and Ania have a special relationship, despite their different religions. Do you have a friend from a different religious or ethnic background? How do you deal with these differences? 5. Yiddish is sprinkled throughout the book. What is special about the language? 6. What role does Esfir’s doll Miriam play in her life and in this novel? Have you ever had a childhood object that meant so much to you? 7. One of the most wrenching scenes in the novel is the beard cutting of Esfir’s grandfather Yankel and his subsequent death. How do these events change the nature of the novel? 8. Drora is a very spirited and courageous character. How does she debunk one of the stereotypes of the “passive” Holocaust Jew? 9. Discussions about the Holocaust often examine the issues of guilt and responsibility. What would you do if you or your family were threatened by torture or death? Or, what would you do if you were a witness to (or suspicious of) an atrocity? 10. The scene at Brona Gora is unimaginable. Can you understand why humans do this to each other? Can you imagine how a person can survive such an ordeal? |
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