Yael Eylat-Tanaka - Uncounted Victim

Uncounted

Victim

The Journey of a Tortured Soul

Yael Eylat-Tanaka

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Foreword Foreword These are the memoirs as told to me by my mother. I have attempted to tell her story as accurately as she presented them to me, piecing together her own written journals, along with various anecdotes that supplemented and peppered stories over my lifetime, without embellishing by interposing my own interpretations of events. This is not a suspense novel, although certainly the events recounted herein were suspenseful to those who experienced them. They certainly sounded suspenseful to me as I heard and read them. So as to avert embarrassment to anyone reading these words, I have on occasion chosen to use pseudonyms, while trying to keep the gist of the story true to form. My mother was French, and occasionally some French words and phrases appear throughout the text. I have included translations wherever appropriate. She also lived and studied in Italy before moving to Israel, and eventually to the United States. Again, where words and phrases are included in those languages, and I have included translations to the best of my ability. I wish I could bid the reader enjoy the story; but it is admittedly too terrible to be enjoyed. My heart aches for my mother – and for so many others who have suffered similar experiences, and worse. Yael Eylat-Tanaka Tampa 2016

Prologue Prologue This is not an autobiography. Every word written here is as truthful as my memories can be, filtered through the passage of time and my experiences. Yet much has been omitted out of respect to those no longer with us who cannot correct whatever events can be seen only from their own point of view. Other situations have been left out to avoid any embarrassment to those who are still among us. The purpose of these pages is to record salient portions of my life that I never had the opportunity to describe fully. I am thinking in particular about my daughter whom I did not wish to tire with stories of events that happened before she was born or while she was growing up. Then, more pressing life problems came to the fore, and it seemed that these reminiscences always took a back seat to more immediate concerns. Yet our past is forever imprinted in my memory, at times in convoluted and distorted schemes, to be sure, but nevertheless, our memories are the fabric of what makes us who we are, permeating every cell of our being. I have endeavored to always look ahead to a brighter future rather than dwell on the past, and yet the past has always been an inescapable part of who I had become. We cannot change the events themselves; at best, we can only reframe our outlook and understanding of those events. I have not always been successful.

Chapter 1- Childhood

Chapter 2- Germany Invades France

Chapter 3- Hope Can Be A Traitor

Chapter 4- Rounding Up The Jews

Chapter 5- Crossing Into Switzerland

Chapter 6- In Hiding

Chapter 7- Liberation

Chapter 8- Palestine

Chapter 9- A Shout Heard Around The World

Chapter 10- “Tarzan”

Chapter 11- Guard Duty

Chapter 12- Heartbreak

Chapter 13- Mother And Daughter

Chapter 14- “Civilian” Life

Chapter 15- Brotherly Love

Chapter 16- Moshe Dayan

Chapter 17- Of More Recent Vintage

Epilogue

A Letter To My Mother

About The Author

OTHER Books By this author

Books By “M. Carling”

These are the memoirs as told to me by my mother. I have attempted to tell her story as accurately as she presented them to me, piecing together her own written journals, along with various anecdotes that supplemented and peppered stories over my lifetime, without embellishing by interposing my own interpretations of events. This is not a suspense novel, although certainly the events recounted herein were suspenseful to those who experienced them. They certainly sounded suspenseful to me as I heard and read them. So as to avert embarrassment to anyone reading these words, I have on occasion chosen to use pseudonyms, while trying to keep the gist of the story true to form.

My mother was French, and occasionally some French words and phrases appear throughout the text. I have included translations wherever appropriate. She also lived and studied in Italy before moving to Israel, and eventually to the United States. Again, where words and phrases are included in those languages, and I have included translations to the best of my ability.

I wish I could bid the reader enjoy the story; but it is admittedly too terrible to be enjoyed. My heart aches for my mother – and for so many others who have suffered similar experiences, and worse.

Yael Eylat-Tanaka

Tampa 2016

This is not an autobiography. Every word written here is as truthful as my memories can be, filtered through the passage of time and my experiences. Yet much has been omitted out of respect to those no longer with us who cannot correct whatever events can be seen only from their own point of view. Other situations have been left out to avoid any embarrassment to those who are still among us.

The purpose of these pages is to record salient portions of my life that I never had the opportunity to describe fully. I am thinking in particular about my daughter whom I did not wish to tire with stories of events that happened before she was born or while she was growing up. Then, more pressing life problems came to the fore, and it seemed that these reminiscences always took a back seat to more immediate concerns. Yet our past is forever imprinted in my memory, at times in convoluted and distorted schemes, to be sure, but nevertheless, our memories are the fabric of what makes us who we are, permeating every cell of our being. I have endeavored to always look ahead to a brighter future rather than dwell on the past, and yet the past has always been an inescapable part of who I had become. We cannot change the events themselves; at best, we can only reframe our outlook and understanding of those events. I have not always been successful.

I know very little of my grandparents. I have only vague memories of the maternal side of the family, but have a much more vivid memory of my paternal grandmother, Memé, who was a very strong presence in our family. My father was deeply attached to her. She was the matriarch in the family, eclipsing my own mother to the latter’s deep frustration. When my own daughter was kidnapped by her father, Memé told me that she, herself, had been divorced from her first unhappy marriage.

My family hailed from Turkey, and my memories of childhood stories include the life of my predecessors and their culture. My father told the story of my grandfather bringing Sultan Hamid, to whom he had been counselor, a beautiful parrot that he had caught on his land, or of returning from the vineyards after the grape harvest, with the children perched atop donkeys, and as they passed the cemetery at dusk, the adults would tell them stories of the dead and the children would blanch in terror at what they imagined what going on.