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The Story Begins
A Family's Decision

Preparations
& Arrival

The Family Story Unfolds

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It was a METAL PRETZEL-SHAPED SIGN above a bakery door that brought me back to this area. I had visited twice before as a Soviet Jewery activist, but was not allowed by authorities to return.

Before walking into that bakery, I knew that my parents had come from the area between Vilna and Minsk which at various times it had been part of Poland, Germany, Russia, or Lithuania. That was the full extent of my knowledge of Postov geography. When I walked into a bakery in Vilnius and glanced into the glass case, I instinctively knew that we were close to my parents' village. The homely looking over browned thin bagel encrusted in poppy seeds carried a message for me. They were replicas of what I knew of as Montreal bagels--distinct from the more familiar plump NY-NJ variety in that it is constructed by hand of a thin coil of dough which encircles a larger hole. Each time we would visit Canada our family returned with a precious stash of dozens of Montreal bagels. I grew up thinking that we liked Montreal bagels because they were better than New York bagels. Standing in Vilna, in the bagel bakery with the metal, pretzel-shaped sign dangling above the doorway, I realized that we liked Montreal bagles not because they were better then what a we had in New Jersey, but because they were like the ones my parents had eaten growing up. On recognizing this familiar treat, I understood that the baker at the Fairmount bagel bakery in Montreal had come from the same general area that we did. I discovered that there was a lot of Postov in me even though I was the only member of my family born in the United States.

Both Shifra (My sister) and I had been entertaining Postov thoughts. She had heard of a university professor who led "roots" trips. Although his trip was not appropriate for us, it did lead us to make a decision. We decided to go as a family to Postov (or Postavy) to seek our roots--to return to the shtetl where our parents, Ethel and Philip Gerber, were born. None of us could remember our parents ever having spoken nostalgically of Postov as home. For them, Postov was connected to the world via a one-way road pointing out. Clearly, the best thing about Postov was that we were no longer there, living the limited and primitive life into which they had been born. My parents were grateful that we were well settled in a better place.

In addition to experiencing the region from which we came, our journey was intended as a memorial trip to pay tribute to our family members lost in the Holocaust. We wanted to engage ourselves in a remnant of what we had been spared. Since we knew of no grave where we could hold a remembrance service and because one location by itself could not contain our grief, we decided to visit sites of mass killings where we could bear witness to our collective loss.

Computer manipulted photograph ©Charlotte Gerber Turner ONLY SHIFRA SURVIVED A 1937 family portrait, digitally enhanced Seated, l-r: Chaim Yitzak Rogov (my grandfather and Philip Gerber's father); his wife, Alter (my grandmother); Moshe Beriel Zuckerman (Dad's brother in-law). Standing, l-r: Henia (Dad's sister and my aunt); Shifra Sherry Rogov Gerber (my half sister); and Henia's two children, Abrosheke (Abraham), born 1925; and Peske, born 1927. Because of this pilgrimage, we now know what happened to our family, when it happened, how it happened, and where death took place. We have eye witness accounts to amplify the family stories and make them more immediate to us.

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