She Had a Premonition...

My great-grandmother fled persecution in 1920. I "am" because of her.

She had a premonition, my great-grandmother. 

It was the early 1920s. She was fleeing Moldova with her family to escape the anti-Jewish massacres, killing Jews by the thousands and traumatizing those who remained. 

As the story has been shared with me, the night before she and her children were due to depart from their hiding place, a premonition kept her behind. The family that went in their stead? Tragically, they were murdered that night. 

But for that fateful premonition, I wouldn’t be here. 

Their future, my grandfather’s survival and life in America, and - by extension - my very existence, hinged upon this vision, this decision.

I can’t get this idea out of my head. 

Learning of this story (in some strange ways what feels like part of my origin story) has had a profound impact on me. Before hearing this information, I knew nothing about my familial line before it hit New York shores. 

The story told to me from an early age was that when they got to Ellis Island, my grandfather’s family changed their name from Vascovitz to Vee to sound “less Jewish” which is the kind of anecdote that doesn’t leave your brain. 

I understood this intellectually; however, through years of disembodiment and disconnection, this felt like the history of others, not my own family line.

My great-grandmother, Leah Vascovitz | Photo courtesy of J. Baumwoll

I’ve felt little connection to my Jewish heritage for much of my life. As a result, it seems I’ve felt disconnected from my ancestors, too. Or, perhaps it is the other way around. Perhaps this feeling is because I’ve felt disconnected from my ancestors. I’m still working to unravel that.

I grew up distancing myself from Judaism. It was rarely conscious, though if I reflected on it at the time, I certainly wouldn’t have believed it was because of shame or any feelings of internalized antisemitism. “Many of my close friends growing up were Jewish” (yes, I hear it) and, if anything, I was a bit jealous of their connection to their temple community and faith.

Lately, though, I’ve been wondering how true this sentiment is and where the shame may have been hiding. It’s something I still need to excavate. That’s part of my journey.

To be clear: I am Jewish. My mother is Jewish. My dad, who died when I was in college, was Protestant. 

We didn’t go to temple or church. We didn’t pray. My parents never talked about (any) God. Each December, our menorah stood next to our Christmas tree. 

I remember, later, in my teenage years, being appreciative of the fact that my parents hadn’t forced any religion upon me. (To be clear: this is how I still feel in this moment.) How could you be born into a belief? How could anyone else tell you what religion to follow, including your own parents? It didn’t make any sense to me, and I didn’t choose to examine it any further.

Proverbially wiping my brow, I claimed atheism as my chosen (non) faith and admittedly felt like a badass for doing so. Soon after, I learned what it meant to be agnostic, and it resonated. Allowing myself to be a bit more open, I carried a “spiritual-but-not-religious” identity with me for many years, further strengthened by the tales of abuse, sexism, misogyny and more I would hear coming out of religious institutions.

I eschewed organized religion of any kind. 

It was nothing personal.

And yet, I had no idea how personal it really could have been.  

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I have recently been in communication with my mom’s cousin, Joel. His mother - my grandfather’s sister - shared details of their life in Moldova and Joel put this down on paper. These details include the story of three small children - one of whom was my grandfather, the age my son is now - waiting for their escape. It is how I now know the story of my great-grandmother. I am eternally grateful to Joel for capturing this history and to my late aunt, Candace, for sending this to me.

Here’s a part of Joel’s writing that I share with his permission…

A Christian neighbor hid them in her basement while a pogrom was storming the town and killing all Jews they could find. They stayed in the cellar for three weeks with very little food until it was safe to come out. My mother told of hearing the stomping of boots of the Cossacks on the floor above them as they searched the house. The very night they were planning to go, Leah had a premonition that it was not a good time.  She stayed back and the family that went in their place was robbed and murdered by some smugglers.  

They made new plans with smugglers they felt were honest, and so they went, in the freezing cold, pitch black of night to the edge of the river, where a small boat waited.  There were guards on both sides of the river who would shoot them if they were discovered.  Finally, a lighted match on the other side signaled the coast was clear and they slid across the frozen river in the small boat.

What I have begun to truly excavate since connecting with this story is that “being Jewish” is not necessarily about organized religion in the way I’ve put it into a box for so many years.

It’s about claiming my identity and honoring the lived experiences of my ancestors. 

I am still trying to put my thoughts and feelings into words, though what I understand now is that this isn’t strictly about religious beliefs (for me). This isn’t about prayer, holidays or even God (though it is about a higher power). 

So, what is it about? It may be about me (re)claiming my Jewish identity. I’ve already begun my learning journey and it’s opened up so much for me.

It may be about excavating my past and honoring the lives of those who came before me.

It may be about about grappling with the guilt of the distancing dance I’ve done for the last forty years.

It may be about a reckoning with my flippant “I’m half Jewish and half Protestant, but I’m not really anything really religious” or “I’m culturally Jewish” comments that thinking about now make me wince.

More importantly, perhaps, it is about figuring out how my Jewish identity fits into my life in this particular moment in time; a time where I stand with other Jews, and other humans, speaking out against the genocide in Palestine.

I don’t fully know yet. 

For now, here’s all I know: This is about how I am Jewish. How I come from Jewish people. How my body contains the DNA of a people persecuted for their identity. My body contains the DNA of a little boy, scared and huddled in a boat in the middle of the night, waiting for a match. My body contains the DNA of a woman with a premonition.

I am the granddaughter of Avram (Alan) Vascovitz (Vee).

I am the great-grandaughter of Leah and Josef Vascovitz.

I am here because of a premonition.

I am. 

Leah and Josef Vascovitz (my great-grandparents)

Note: An earlier version of this piece was shared inside of my writing community (with The Open Book Company) on November 27th, 2023.