A Small Box, a Long Silence
A Featured Story by Diana Kayla Hochberg
My dad has been gone a long time now. I lost him when I was just 24 years old, far too early to understand how much I would still need him, and far too soon to ask the questions I did not yet know to ask. He left behind love, discipline, humor, wisdom, and more unanswered questions than I ever expected to carry into adulthood.
He never lived to see the woman I became. He was not here when I began searching for the truth about my beginnings, and he was not here when I wrote Connected: Finding My Truth. Still, through every chapter of my journey, I felt him beside me. Steady. Proud. Guiding me with the strength he carried throughout his life.
He was the best father anyone could ask for. He showed up. He listened. He loved without condition. Anyone who has read Connected understands why his absence still lives so deeply in my heart, and why he remains such an important part of my story.
The Box That Waited for Me
Not long ago, I discovered a small box tucked away in a forgotten corner. It was not just any box. It was a Garcia y Vega cigar box, the kind he always smoked. The moment I saw it, he felt close again. I could picture him with a cigar in hand, warm smile, calm presence, and quiet strength.
Inside that familiar box were my father’s World War II medals, handwritten notes, official documents, and a weathered Jewish Army Bible. That simple cigar box opened the door to a part of his life he rarely spoke about, and to a courage I never fully understood.
According to his military records, he served with the 100th Field Artillery. When he spoke about the war, he mentioned only that he helped with medical care. He never shared the full truth of what that meant. He assisted surgeons. He witnessed loss. He helped save lives. He carried memories that only war can carve into a person’s soul.
Inside his Bible, he wrote words that still give me chills:
“Presented to PFC Manuel Hochberg, June 20, 1944.
I am aboard the SS Argentina en route to the European Theatre of Operations.
New York to Liverpool, England.”
There was also a German Mark labeled “Captured Nazi 1945.”
There were medals. There was bravery.
There was silence.
He returned home on the RMS Queen Mary in 1945 and was honorably discharged as Sergeant Manuel Hochberg.
To the world, he was a soldier, a businessman, and a provider.
To me, he was my father.
He was warm, funny, and intelligent.
He loved sports, travel, theater, history, museums, the arts, and a good cigar.
He was a fisherman, a joker, a storyteller, and a teacher.
He taught me to ride a bike, to laugh, to stand tall, to be independent, and to live with heart. He was also a man of mystery. He carried things quietly, carefully, and respectfully, the way so many men of his generation did.
If I filled a million pages, I would still fall short of describing how deeply I love and miss him. Every single day, no matter what anyone says, he raised me. He shaped me. He will always be my dad.
To Me, He Was Simply Manny
Writing Connected: Finding My Truth became the conversation I wish I could have had with him. It became my search for truth, for understanding, and for the missing pieces of identity, legacy, and belonging. I often wonder what he would have said if he were here. I wonder what stories he may have finally shared. I wonder how he may have helped me carry the truths I uncovered.
Even though he was not physically here, I still felt him. Always.
He was complex. He was extraordinary. His influence remains powerful, and his absence is still deeply felt.
I wish he had been here long enough to meet his grandchildren, David, Erin, and Aimee, and his great-granddaughter, Harper. He would have loved them with his whole heart.
What I Carry Forward
Happy Birthday, Dad.
I know you are still watching over me.
I still look for your guidance. I still listen for your strength.
And I will always carry you with me.
With love, always,
Diana
A Daughter’s Heart
Two years ago, I wrote this poem as I began to confront a truth that upended everything I thought I knew about myself. I wasn’t adopted in any legal or traditional way. I was a black market baby, sold into silence.
This poem helped me make sense of something that felt impossible to hold. If you’ve ever questioned your identity, searched for your origins, or carried secrets you didn’t choose, please know you’re not alone.
Roots Revealed: A Black Market Baby’s Journey Home
In the quiet heart of time's embrace,
A story hidden, a forbidden place,
A late discovery, a secret quest,
To find the roots where love might rest.
In whispers carried by the wind,
The echoes of a past begin,
A life unveiled, a truth laid bare,
The shadows lift, there's something there.
A name unknown, a face unseen,
In dreams, a distant memory's gleam,
The hands that held, the voice that cried,
A journey back to what was denied.
Through years of wonder, nights of ache,
A piece of self the silence takes,
The map of life, the lines erased,
A history sold, but not replaced.
The heart, it beats with sharpened rhythm,
The soul breaks free from stolen prison,
With stories whispered, secrets screamed,
And courage rising from the seams.
In eyes that mirror ancient ties,
In truths that shatter practiced lies,
A family found, though torn apart,
The thread still runs through every heart.
For in this tale, once sealed away,
Is truth the system can't betray,
That love, though lost or underground,
Still pushes up through hallowed ground.
The journey ends where it began,
In stolen time, in broken span,
A black market baby, now made whole,
A story reclaimed, a blazing soul.
If you've walked a similar path, or if you're still searching for your own roots, I see you. Feel free to share your story or your thoughts. Healing begins when silence ends.