Cherie at age 5

DAYTON — As a 5-year-old child, I looked out the window of a monstrous bird of steel. The TWA soared over the Atlantic Ocean, taking me from Paris to my new home in America. I was one of the homeless, tempest-tossed for whom Lady Liberty lighted the way through the golden door.

It was April 1948 and my name was Maria Helena Chuchnowicz. Behind me was a shattered life of tragedy and sorrow. My parents, Joseph Chuchnowicz and Basia Bojarska, perished at Bergen Belsen; their ashes lay among those of the 6 million Jews murdered in the Holocaust. Sadly I could no longer remember what they looked like. But I was also leaving behind the orphanage that was home for me and other children who lost their families.

The orphanage in Ville Juif in Paris, was one of many financed and organized by Vaad Hatzalah, which means Rescue Committee. This organization was the brainchild of Rabbi Eliezer Silver and Jewish newspaper editor the Rev. Samuel Schmidt of Cincinnati.

While it was primarily dedicated to saving families of yeshiva personnel stuck in war-torn Europe, it was also trying to save thousands of others. It raised large sums of money so that orphans and homeless families could be cared for until they were placed in Jewish communities outside of Europe.

The orphanage was surrounded by high walls which concealed us from the outside. We were warned to never venture outside those walls because danger lurked beyond.

We knew that evil Nazis had hunted for Jewish children to bake in their ovens.

Since the orphanage was under the auspices of an Orthodox Jewish organization, the embers of Judaism burned ever brightly. We were introduced to Jewish culture in small doses and to the Hebrew language through songs. We enjoyed the luxury of a bath and clean clothes once a week on Friday afternoons so that we could welcome the Sabbath in cleanliness. After the Sabbath meals, our dining hall echoed with the sounds and beauty of Sabbath and Zionist songs.

The war’s end brought problems of staggering proportions: thousands of Jewish survivors with no homes, families or money. Palestine was the only place in the world to unconditionally welcome these homeless Jews. Because Palestine desperately needed people to populate, build and defend the land, Vaad Hatzalah chose this land to resettle its refugees and children, including those of my orphanage.

Since he was a close friend of Rabbi Silver and Rev. Schmidt, John Moskowitz of Cincinnati turned to them to help him and his wife find a Jewish orphan to adopt as their own.

When Rev. Schmidt went to Paris and visited my orphanage, pictures were taken of some of the children. Upon returning to Cincinnati, he showed the pictures to the Moskowitzes. I became the chosen one.

Then began Operation America, the project of getting me out of France and into America: no small feat. My journey was meticulously planned by Vaad Hatzalah every step of the way.

Little did I know that my life would undergo a major upheaval. One day, I was asked if I would like to go on an exciting trip. I nodded my head “yes” out of curiosity and the unresistable lure of adventure. My doll and my dress were packed into a small suitcase.

A few days later a man came by on his bicycle to take me away. Where was I going? Would I ever see my friends from the orphanage again? I did not know.

I was taken to the home of a French Catholic woman, Eleanor Bohne-Hene, with whom I stayed temporarily. I arrived frightened but Mrs. Bohne-Hene’s daughters, Monique and Catherine, eased my fears by offering friendship and candy.

They began calling me “Cherie,” French for dear, a name which became permanent. Before long we became friends and I liked them a lot.

For the next phase of Operation America, Mrs. Bohne-Hene applied for and obtained passports from the French government. Because America’s quota system made it difficult to enter legally, I was going to America as Monique Bohne, using her passport. My hair was bleached blonde to resemble her passport photo.

The day finally came for our departure. With tears I hugged Monique and Catherine, wondering if I would ever see them again. As the TWA lifted and roared skyward, I remember how terrified I was at getting on for my first airplane ride. After arriving at New York’s LaGuardia Airport and boarding another plane, we landed at Greater Cincinnati Airport. Mrs. Bohne-Hene and I were greeted by an attractive, friendly couple, Libby and John Moskowitz.

They seemed thrilled and anxious to see me. I felt pangs of isolation, however, when I noticed that French was not spoken here. Where was I? Everyone spoke a strange language, English. I did not understand a word.

Cherie with her adopted parents, John and Libby Moskowitz, in 1950

Mrs. Bohne-Hene remained with me for about a week to help me adjust to my new home. I couldn’t believe that I had an entire bedroom to myself; at the orphanage, I shared it with many other girls. She explained to me that I had new parents who loved me dearly and would take very good care of me. That I didn’t need to be afraid because they would always be there for me.

When Mrs. Bohne-Hene left to return to France, I cried for days. Would I ever see her again? Or was my lone, personal link with my past forever severed?

My new parents, armed with a French-English dictionary, helped me to learn basic, simple English words. As my shyness melted, the social distance between us diminished with time. As we shared more and more experiences, I began to relate to them and accept them in their new role as my parents. They gave me love and I learned to give it back.

Like the orphanage, Shabbat was a special day here. The house was spotlessly clean and a heavenly aroma came from the kitchen on Fridays. Dad sang the Kiddush and we shared a delicious Shabbat meal with dinner guests. On Saturday mornings we would walk hand in hand to shul for services. I felt at home in the synagogue.

Judaism was the link between my past and my present, bringing my parents and me ever closer together.

What a surprise it was to discover that my new family was not solely limited to my newfound parents. It was an unforgettable experience being introduced to my grandmother who captured my heart when she sewed a pretty dress and bonnet for my doll.

I was now blessed with dozens of aunts, uncles and cousins, when I never knew any before. After wondering who all these people were and where I fit in, I loved being part of a big, happy family. Our house was a real home, always brimming with company, love and warmth.

I was gradually adjusting to American life. When I was enrolled in the kindergarten of the Hebrew Day School, where I made lifelong friends, my absorption of the English language gathered steam and really accelerated. My cousin Pearl, who was a librarian, introduced me to the wonderful world of books. I was only 5 years old and already learning my third language. I began taking ballet and piano lessons.

While I was enthralled with the infinite goodness of life in America, I was still haunted with occasional nightmares of Nazis hunting for me. One Veterans Day, my parents took me downtown to see a big parade. When I saw soldiers marching with their guns, I was alarmed.

I shook uncontrollably with fear and started screaming. Were the Nazis still after me and other Jewish children? My parents tenderly understood and we hurriedly left the parade.

Since I came to America illegally on Monique Bohne’s passport, this matter had to be resolved before I could become an American. My parents worked feverishly with their congressman, lawyers, and immigration personnel to open the door for me. Finally after much time, bureaucracy, and effort, an act of Congress was passed in Washington D.C. enabling me to stay in America.

It was a proud red, white and blue day for my family when at the age of 10, I was the youngest one that day to be sworn in as an American citizen.

At the time I was becoming the newest American, I was unaware of the heart-tugging drama behind my life. But as I grew older and learned of the Holocaust, the discovery seared my very soul and I found it numbing and overwhelming. My eyes welled up with tears for my parents whose lives were sacrificed, for the thousands of Jewish communities that are no more and for the millions of Jews who were murdered.

Stuart and Cherie at their wedding as Rabbi Eliezer Silver looks on

Of the Holocaust victims, 1.5 million were children. To this day I ask myself, “Why them and not me? Why me and not them?” Like the phoenix, I rose out of the ashes and survived the greatest tragedy in the world’s history.

Today, I’ve been married for 42 years to my high school sweetheart, Stuart Rosenstein. We are parents of two grown children: Johnny works for CBS Sportsline.Com in Ft. Lauderdale and Shani works as youth director for Tifereth Israel Synagogue in Columbus. My father sadly passed away in 1963, and I make daily calls and weekly visits to my mother at Cedar Village in Mason.

Every day I am thankful for being blessed with wonderful family and friends.

Today, I have many questions. How did I get separated from my natural parents? Did they entrust me to strangers to ensure my survival? How did I get to the orphanage? Are there brothers and sisters or other relatives? Where are Mrs. Bohne-Hene, Monique, Catherine and the children of the orphanage today? I know I must find out the answers.

On Yom Hashoah, I light two yizkor candles in memory of my natural parents but on Yom Kippur, I kindle three in remembrance of the Chuchnowiczs and John Moskowitz.

I have visited Yad Vashem in Israel and Holocaust museums in Washington D.C. and Detroit and know I have a lot of searching and researching to do. I yearn to visit Paris and feel an obligation and responsibility to visit Bergen Belsen and Auschwitz.

How do I thank all of those people deeply involved in changing the course of my life? Where do I even begin? My parents provided patience, compassion, encouragement and love to unchain me from a scarred past.

Their constant devotion changed a frightened waif into a happy, confident daughter who found her niche in the family and society.

I am deeply indebted to my adopted parents for giving me a new life that has been wonderful. I was blessed with not one but two sets of parents who loved me and for that I will always be grateful.

Yad Vashem’s Names Recovery Month
Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust memorial, has designated the Jewish month of Nisan (March-April) as Names Recovery Month, marked by local community campaigns to recover names of Holocaust victims. The program is part of the overall 11th-Hour Campaign, calling upon people to memorialize Jews murdered in the Holocaust by recording their names, and when available, photos and other biographical data on Yad Vashem’s Pages of Testimony. Over the past five decades, Yad Vashem has documented more than 3.1 million names, listed in the online Central Database of Shoah Victims’ Names since 2004. To submit a Page of Testimony online, go to www.yadvashem.org.