A Cry in Unison (Traduction française à venir)

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Judy Cohen

Jeune fille espiègle et enjouée, Judy Weissenberg Cohen a grandi à Debrecen (Hongrie) au sein d'une fratrie nombreuse dont elle est la benjamine. Mais à mesure que les nazis déferlent sur l'Europe et que les mesures anti-juives la séparent des siens, l'enfance joyeuse de Judy est altérée par la peur et les murmures étouffés des adultes qui l'entourent. Lorsque l'Allemagne envahit la Hongrie en 1944, la vie de Judy bascule. Alors que les événements terrifiants se succèdent, elle est bientôt confrontée à l'incompréhensible : Auschwitz-Birkenau. Dans l'ombre des chambres à gaz, elle s'accroche à ses sœurs et à ses « sœurs du camp », qui représentent son seul espoir face aux souffrances qui s’annoncent.

Dans A Cry in Unison, Judy Weissenberg Cohen, survivante de l'Holocauste, éducatrice et militante des droits humains, tisse sa fascinante histoire de survie en évoquant les forces politiques et sociales qui ont bouleversé sa vie. Son témoignage est un hommage vibrant aux expériences uniques vécues par les femmes durant l'Holocauste et un plaidoyer contre le silence face à l'injustice.

Préface de Karin Doerr

En bref: Hongrie; Ghetto de Debrecen; Camp de la mort d’Auschwitz-Birkenau; Camps de concentration et de travaux forcés; Marche de la mort; Camps de personnes déplacées; Stratégie sur les travailleurs du textile (projet Tailor); Immigration au Canada en 1948; Intégration à la vie canadienne; Expériences vécues par les femmes durant l’Holocauste; Offert en format audio

232 pages

Tranche d'âge recommandée: 16+

Langue: Anglais

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Book Cover of A Cry in Unison (Traduction française à venir)

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A Cry in Unison

Kol Nidre

That year, 1944, everybody came: the believers, the atheists, the Orthodox, the agnostics — women of all descriptions and of every background. We were about seven hundred women, jammed into one long barracks. We were all there, remembering our homes and families on this Yom Kippur, the one holiday that had been observed in even the most assimilated homes. We had asked for and received one candle and one siddur from the kapos. Someone lit the candle, and a hush fell over the barracks. I can still see the scene: the woman, sitting with the lit candle, starting to read Kol Nidre, the opening prayer of Yom Kippur.

The kapos gave us only ten minutes while they guarded the two entrances to the barracks to watch out for SS guards who might come around unexpectedly. Practising Judaism or celebrating any Jewish holiday was forbidden in the Auschwitz-Birkenau death camp. The Nazis knew it would give solace to the prisoners. But this particular year, some of the older women had asked two kapos for permission to do something for the eve of Yom Kippur.

Most of the kapos were brutalized and brutal people, but a few of them remained truly kind. We knew these particular two were approachable. One of the kind kapos was a tall blonde Polish woman, non-Jewish. The other one was a petite red-headed young Jewish woman from Slovakia.

When they had heard that we wanted to do something for Kol Nidre, the red-headed kapo was simply amazed that anyone still wanted to pray in that hellhole of Birkenau.

“You crazy Hungarian Jews,” she exclaimed. “You still believe in this? You still want to do this, and here?”

Well, incredibly, we did — in this place where we felt that instead of asking for forgiveness from God, God should be asking for forgiveness from us. We all wanted to gather around the woman with the lit candle and siddur. She began to recite the Kol Nidre very slowly so that we could repeat the words if we wanted to. But we didn’t. Instead, all the women burst out in a cry — in unison. Our prayer was the sound of this incredible cry of hundreds of women. I have never heard, before or since then, such a heart-rending sound. Something was happening to us. It was as if our hearts were bursting.

Even though no one really believed the prayer would change our situation, that God would suddenly intervene — we weren’t that naive — the opportunity to cry out and remember together reminded us of our former lives, alleviating our utter misery even for the shortest while, in some inexplicable way. It seemed to give us comfort.

Even today, many decades later, every time I go to Kol Nidre services, I can’t shake the memory of that sound. This is the Kol Nidre I always remember.

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À propos de l'autrice

Judy Weissenberg Cohen est née en 1928 à Debrecen (Hongrie). Conférencière engagée, elle œuvre à l’enseignement de l’histoire de l’Holocauste et des droits de la personne. En 2001, elle a fondé le site internet « Women and the Holocaust », qui rassemble des témoignages, des textes littéraires et des travaux universitaires explorant notamment la question du genre dans les expériences des femmes durant l'Holocauste. Judy réside à Toronto.

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And yet, as long as we were together, four sisters, we felt fortunate.

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