Review of “We Must Not Think of Ourselves” by Lauren Grodstein

By Carole J Greene, Jewish Book Festival Committee Member

On March 27, when we fill the Nina Iser Jewish Cultural Center for the ninth program of this year’s 10-book Jewish Book Festival, we may wonder why we came to hear about yet another book depicting life in the Warsaw ghetto after the Nazi invasion of Poland in 1939. We’re Jews. We read. We already know all about this hellish episode of the Holocaust — all the deprivations, disease, killings for no reason, forced transport to death camps. What makes this book so special that we should not miss this presentation?

Let me tell you.

We celebrate author Lauren Grodstein for the way she reveals all the facts we already know. Her novel, “We Must Not Think of Ourselves,” utilizes fictional narratives of historical events in a rather unusual way. Grodstein tells us in her acknowledgments that she was inspired by the Oneg Shabbat project, the actual — and courageous — attempt to chronicle events in the Warsaw ghetto, to generate significant documentation that historians would be grateful to have.

The tale begins in late 1940, when Adam Paskow, the novel’s narrator, takes on an assignment by a secret group of archivists to preserve the truth of what happens inside the ghetto’s walls. Somewhat surprised to be asked — he had been an unheralded language professor prior to being cut off from that life — he agrees.

As families try hard to lead normal lives in this grotesquely abnormal captivity, Paskow conducts language classes for children, in the basement of one of the ghetto buildings. These young students become the first to be interviewed. Above each entry in his clandestine notebook, he indicates the person’s name, age, height and weight, plus the date of the interview. Often, he includes his own reactions to what the child divulges. Thus, readers learn how so many of the children sneak outside the ghetto almost daily to barter for or just plain steal items — especially food — to extend their lives, if just for one more day.

Paskow’s interviews also share the dread of the parents — the danger to their children at the hands of Nazi guards who shoot at will, their hope for the return of their offspring before nightfall adds more to fear, and the inescapable fact that the food these kids bring is keeping them alive. Just barely.

Grodstein peeks inside the hope harbored in the adults’ hearts that, somehow, they will come through all this. Maybe they can use whatever of value they still own to buy their way out. Maybe they can avoid the transports. Maybe they won’t get sick — a death sentence in itself, because they lack doctors and medicines. Maybe they will be rescued. Maybe they will have enough hope left to fall in love, fulfilling that most natural need.

And that is what Paskow does. Of the three families crammed into one small apartment, one person stands out: Sala Wiskoff. Married and with two children, Wiskoff is stoic yet determined. Over the many months of their forced proximity, empathy turns to friendship, which turns to love. It’s an untenable relationship, and both Paskow and Wiskoff know that. Yet, at the same time, their love produces a vital connection with their only salvation: hope.

Here is where readers start to understand the meaning of the book’s title. When observant Jews sit shiva, tradition prescribes that any mirrors in the house must be turned to the wall, sofa cushions put away. Mourners must not feel too comfortable in this world bereft of the loved one who has died. More important to realize during this time is the teaching that “we must not think of ourselves.”

What an apt metaphor for the semblance of life in the Warsaw ghetto — where every resident takes on the role of mourner for all that has been lost. When mourning ends, only hope for the future moves them onward.