The minute I heard Richard’s voice on the phone, I felt his warmth, humour and openness.

“Who are you?” he asked.

I took a breath.

“My name is Beth Rosen and I’m calling from New York. If your mother was Mary Rosenstrauch and she was born in Tarnapol, Poland, and you were born in a DP camp in 1946, I’m your cousin.”

He laughed. “You know more than some of my friends know.”

When I was a child, I heard how Mary, my father’s first cousin, escaped certain death by jumping from a cattle car headed to a concentration camp. Her experience, pretending to be Catholic and working in a slave labour camp during the war, made such an impression on me I decided to write her novel for young readers. 

When I finished the book, I wanted to try to find Mary’s grave in Toronto but I didn’t know her last name. My cousin Joan, who had met Mary once back in 1957,  helped me with some of the details for the book. I was extremely sad when Joan told me that Mary pretended to be Catholic and married a Catholic man in the DP camp and never told her two sons she was Jewish. I was determined to find her grave because Joan said one of Mary’s sons put a Jewish star on her gravestone after learning she was Jewish.

All I knew about her married name was that it began with a C and ended with an I. At first, as impossible as it sounded, I thought I would go to all the Catholic Polish cemeteries in Toronto and search all the gravestones. Fortunately, a friend connected me with a researcher at the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. Two days later, I received 28 documents with Mary’s name and her family’s names. I stared at her signature. I was overjoyed when I saw Mary’s signature as if I was meeting her for the first time. Then, I saw a birth certificate. Her son Richard Czerwinski was born in 1946.

With a great deal of luck, I found his phone number and we were both thrilled to speak that day in May. I have just spent a few days with Richard and his wife Jan, a Jewish woman from New York. They welcomed Maryann, my partner, and me as new family members to their lovely home in Dundas, Ont. I learned that when they were in their 40s, Mary told them she had something important to discuss before they went to a gathering at her friend’s home.

“I have been acting my whole life. I’m a Jewish woman.”

Richard and Jan sat motionless as she described for the first time how she survived the war. That night at Mary’s Jewish friend’s home she recited the Hebrew prayer as she lit the Shabbos candles. Richard and Jan stared at her in disbelief. They had heard hints about her upbringing but it was the first time she was so open about her past.

As we talked that first night of our visit, Richard told me about his mother.

“Her parents named her Sala, and she was also called Sola as well before she changed her name to Mary in order to pretend she was Catholic.”

I smiled. “What a pretty name. I heard you put a Jewish star on her gravestone.”

He looked at me for moment and then said, “After my father died, she had a close friend named Stanley. When my mother died, Stanley told us she wanted to have a Jewish star put on her stone.” He paused and added. “We’ve talked about doing it but haven’t done it yet.” I was disappointed but didn’t say a word.

The next day we drove to the cemetery. I placed the stones that I had recently taken from my grandfather’s grave in a New York cemetery on Mary’s gravestone. Then, I took one stone by her grave and put it in my pocket so I could leave it on my grandfather’s gravestone when I returned to New York. Richard silently watched me a few paces away. Then, he walked over and gently touched her gravestone.

Just before we left the cemetery, Richard said he wanted to go to the cemetery’s office. He introduced himself to the woman behind the main desk and told her he would like to add something to his mother’s gravestone. She checked her computer for the gravesite and determined he was indeed her son. She took a pen and pad out and asked what he wanted to do.

“I want to add a Jewish star above her name.”

Just over 70 years after Mary jumped from the train, her son helped her return to her Jewish roots.

Without any hesitation, the woman looked down at the pad and wrote what he said.

“How long will it take?” Richard asked.

“Seven to eight weeks.”

She gave him the price and said she would email him all the information and he and his brother needed to sign it and then return the forms to her office.

As we left, I asked his wife if my visit caused him to make that decision.

“Oh no. He has wanted to do that ever since Stanley told him she wanted that on her stone.”

Not only has Mary’s wish come true but Richard and I now have a lot of catching up to do. He will soon be meeting a host of new relatives who can’t wait to welcome him into their homes. 

Beth Rosen is a psychotherapist, adjunct college professor and writer. She just completed a young adult novel about Mary’s experience during the war. She lives in New York City.