"I don't want a brother—I want my sister," I shouted. Then my mother wrapped my 10-day-old brother in a blanket and took him out the back door. When she returned empty handed a few minutes later, I asked where Jimmy was. She said that she had put him in the trash.

"You did what?"

"I put him in the trash. We have argued about this ever since we brought Jimmy home from the hospital. I'm tired of the arguing—you said you didn't want him, so I took care of it."

"I don't want him, but you can't put him in the trash—he'll die." When I started to cry, she went out the back door again. In a few minutes, she returned with Jimmy.

"I don't want a brother, but you don't have to throw him away. And I still want my sister."

Mother was a short, thin woman, but she was strong-willed and stubborn. She usually had a cigarette hanging from the right side of her mouth, looked old, and worn out. She always pulled her dark, straight hair back and tied it into a bun or a ponytail. She didn't take crap from anyone—including me—her privileged first born. I clearly remember this incident. It was 1950, and I was four. After returning with Jimmy, and with my little compromise, she asked, "Why do you want a sister?"

"I want my sister. I know I have a sister; I just don't know how to find her. I love her and miss her."

"You and Jimmy are the only two babies I have had."

"I know that, but you are not my real mother. I don't belong here," I said.

"Michael, you are scaring me."

Mother just stared at me—and that was the end of the conversation. But I never stopped thinking about my sister and wanting to find her. All the while growing up, there was this deep-seated feeling that something was just not right with my life. My family didn't seem like mine. I felt like a stranger within my family. I thought that they had adopted me. That must have been the only explanation.

Life went on—Jimmy and I got along best as could be expected for brothers. I don't recall that we ever fought over toys, but we did fight.

≈

I excelled in school and had many friends. My best friend was Scott. He had a flippant attitude about everything but could be serious when it was appropriate. He was a towheaded, lanky athlete who ran high hurdles on the track team and was captain of the basketball team. High school graduation was approaching, and Scott and I decided to take some time off before going away to college. Of course, neither of us had any idea of what we would do during our time off, nor had we decided how long it would be.

One day that spring, Scott said that as a graduation gift his parents had signed him up for a trip to Poland and Israel. I asked why in the world they would do that.

"Oh, it's something sponsored by the USY. It's called the Israel Pilgrimage/Poland Seminar."

"What's the USY?"

"It stands for United Synagogue Youth. It's an organization for Jewish kids."

"Sort of like CYC?"

"Yep, only it does Jewish, not Catholic. I have to go on the trip—it's a week in Poland and four weeks in Israel. We'll tour synagogues and concentration camps in Poland and see all the usual sites in Israel and study."

"That sounds cool. Could I go with you?"

"I don't know. We can check."

While Scott checked with his parents, I asked my parents if I could go. Father said that it would be expensive. Mother was concerned about my safety. I suggested taking the money out of my college fund. I said that it would be the trip of a lifetime and that I would gain so much knowledge of different cultures and appreciation for how others live. After considerable discussion, begging and bargaining, they said that it would be okay—but reminded me that I wasn't Jewish. Scott's parents didn't mind either—but they reminded me that I wasn't Jewish. After we jumped through all the USY hoops, I was set to go with Scott. I told him I was so excited and could hardly wait to go.

"I just want to remind you—you're not Jewish," said Scott.

"What the hell! Why is everyone reminding me that I am not Jewish?"

"Well, this trip will be with dozens of Jewish kids. You won't know anyone except me and a few other kids from school. We'll be holding Jewish services and the kids will be telling stories about their bar and bat mitzvah—they'll all be talking about their Jewish lives. Not only that, we won't eat any meat in Poland, but the shawarma in Israel will be to die for."

"That's okay as long as you stick with me and help me understand."

The day of departure finally arrived. Scott was right, there were dozens of kids and I knew only a few of them. We first flew to Boston and switched to Lufthansa for a 12-hour flight to Krakow. In between naps, Scott tried teaching me about the Holocaust, of which I knew little. All the other kids were visiting, chatting and having a great time. I told Scott to go visit if he wanted to. He said no that he would stick with me. Plenty of kids came by to talk to Scott, and I got to meet them.

≈

The sun began creeping over the horizon and we were still a few hours from Krakow. A bunch of the Jewish men got up and went to the back of the plane. I asked Scott what was up. He said that they were going to pray the morning service, which is done at sunrise. The men all wore those black and white prayer shawls and their chanting and singing fascinated me.

We landed in Krakow about 10:00 a.m. After collecting our luggage and exchanging our dollars for Polish złotys, we boarded busses for the four-hour ride to Warsaw. The next day was Saturday so we spent Shabbat, the Jewish Sabbath, in Warsaw, which meant that there was a three-hour religious service, a lot of eating and resting and no travel or riding tours that day.

Our first stop in Warsaw was the site of the Warsaw Ghetto. During the early 1940s, more than 400,000 Polish Jews were sent to the ghetto, which had an area of about one square mile. I couldn't image that many people forced to live in that small of a space. More than half were eventually sent to the Treblinka death camp. Early in 1943, the Jews began an uprising in the ghetto. The uprising eventually was squashed and the ghetto was destroyed by the Nazis. At least 52,000 Jews had been killed, and those that survived were sent to death camps in Treblinka, Poniatowa, Majdanek and Trawniki. I began to have a deep sense of foreboding.

Our itinerary included the Lodz Jewish Cemetery, Sobibor, Birkenau and, eventually, Auschwitz. I became more depressed with each stop. In Lodz, we visited the Jewish cemetery where there was a section just for Holocaust victims. They named it Ghetto Field and about 43,000 victims from the Lodz Ghetto who died from hunger, consumption and other diseases were buried there. The living conditions for the Jews there were inhumane. People were starving to death and dying from disease. My depression greatly increased after the visit to the site of the Lodz Ghetto.

The Nazis forced Jews living in ghettos to create a local Judenrat (Jewish Council) to govern the ghetto. But the Judenrat was actually a means to enforce the Nazi's anti-Jewish regulations and laws. The Nazis charged the Judenrat to appoint Jewish Ghetto Police, which were auxiliary police units. The Judenrat also directed the Jewish police to assist the Germans in rounding up Jews and loading them onto transport trains leaving for concentration camps. The living conditions and betrayal they experienced profoundly affected me, and I began to sink deeper into depression.

At Auschwitz, we toured the barracks and the gas chambers. When we got to the crematory, I became woozy, I had a hard time breathing. The stench overwhelmed me. In my mind, I could hear the screams. I collapsed. When they revived me, I began to cry and screamed, "I can't go on … I can't go on." Scott told the group leaders how depressed I had become. After a doctor's examination, and considering my depression, the group leaders decided that it was best for me to return home. Scott didn't want me to go alone, so he went with me on the plane. He rejoined the group in Israel.

≈

Back at home, the nightmares began. The jitters had taken hold of me. The slightest sharp noise startled me. When I stopped eating, my parents had enough and decided to get help. My doctor ordered a battery of tests and scans and found nothing physically wrong. He suggested that I see a psychiatrist. My parents were uncertain about the doctor's suggestion but made an appointment with a psychiatrist that he recommended.

The psychiatrist said it was a classic case of clinical depression and prescribed two antidepressants. I began the medication and after several more months with little sleep and little food, I was emaciated and still depressed.

My parents found another psychiatrist. She reviewed all the tests that I had been through and medications I was taking. She asked if the other psychiatrist had offered talk therapy. "What is that?" I asked.

"It's a type of psychotherapy that can be an important part of treatment for depression. Talk therapy is not just talking about your problems; it is also working toward solutions." He had not. So, my talk therapy with her began.

"Michael, tell me what you're feeling right now."

"It's sort of a coldness—like an absence of feeling—a really hollowed-out feeling."

"Hollowed-out?"

"Yeah, like there's nothing inside of me anymore."

"How long have you felt that way?"

"Um, about a year."

"Have you ever felt like taking your life?"

"Sometimes, but I've never wanted to act on it."

"Have you ever had these feelings before?"

"No."

"Tell me, what happened about a year ago that brought this depression on."

Searching my memory, I said, "I went on a trip to Poland with my best friend and a bunch of other kids. It was a great time, lots of fun, making new friends and new experiences. We were touring synagogues and Jewish cemeteries and memorials to the Holocaust."

"What do you think happened during this trip that brought on the depression?"

"It was gradual. I was okay in Krakow and Warsaw. We were having a great time seeing interesting places and eating great food. Even though I had met the other kids for the first time on the plane, they immediately became my friends. I began to feel the sadness when we visited the site of the Lodz ghetto.

The more places we visited after that the more I felt sad and empty. Then when we went to Auschwitz, it was just too much. I had never been there before, and I don't remember that I had ever read anything about the place, but it seemed familiar. I began to feel panic. When we got to the crematory, everything began closing in on me. I could smell the burning flesh. The place was gripping me around the throat. I fainted."

"You're trembling. Do you need a few minutes, would you like something to drink?"

"No."

"Mike, the Holocaust was a particularly dark and evil event in human history. I understand how you could be shaken by this experience, but you seem to have taken it to a new level of anxiety. Tell me about your nightmares."

"I'm always in the dark. Sometimes there are a lot of men crowded around me. No one is talking. We are walking together into a large room. I don't know what happens next, because I wake up screaming, 'turn it off, turn it off.' I'm usually soaked in sweat and sometimes I've wet the bed. In another dream, I'm in a field digging. The heat is unbearable, and I don't know why I'm digging. Someone keeps yelling at me to dig faster. I dig faster, but it's not fast enough. He keeps yelling at me to dig faster, faster, faster. I wake up exhausted. And in another dream …"

"That's enough for today. I'm going to refer you to another therapist who specializes in dreams. I think it may help to know if these dreams mean anything— maybe he can give me a clue."