Before my mother's book was published, the publisher came to visit, to decide together on a suitable title. The publisher wanted the title "A Partisan Fighter".
The reasoning was sound. Many people didn't know what a Partisan was. The word “Fighter” would attract attention. Especially with my mother's young innocent face under that word. It seemed like an oxymoron. That book cover would get attention. Curiosity would be piqued.
My mother recoiled at the proposed title. "Oh no! I am not a fighter!" The publisher explained. My mother would not budge. The publisher argued. My mother was adamant.
The publisher pleaded. My mother would not budge.
I thought, doesn't the publisher see my mother's personality from her book? Faye Schulman doesn't back down. And so, her book was named, meekly, A Partisan's Memoir.
If Faye Schulman would not and could not see herself as a fighter, how does she see herself? A survivor? No. More than a survivor.
"I helped many people." she often told me. She saw herself as a helper. A helper of what? A helper for whom? Just a helper.
What kept her going? She survived one day at a time, one mission at a time, one step through the snow at a time. She knew her family was dead so she wasn't looking forward to any reunions. She volunteered for every mission. And she was only a teenager.
What were we doing at that age? While my mother was "helping" to fight nazi's and to care for the wounded, and she was taking photographs for posterity during relatively quiet moments. She tells us her pillow was her rifle.
At that same age, I was in high school, worrying about what colour sweater to wear and only just beginning to think about boys.
Here's my best understanding of how she sees herself. My mother was a helper for justice. But not a fighter for justice.
You can be just as strong and determined and resilient as a helper. She was a powerful helper. She was not a fighter.