I have spent the past few weeks speaking to students about my grandfather’s story of surviving the Holocaust. The truth is that I do not really know his full story. It is something I have struggled with my whole life. That struggle guided me in a way I could not have imagined.
My “3G” story is a bit different because I lived with my grandparents for much of my childhood, and my grandfather was more like a father than a grandfather to me. I’m not exactly sure how old I was when I first started asking him to tell me his story. I was young, probably too young to hear those stories. Still, I had a sense that those stories were vitally important to me and my identity. He never saw it that way. His answer was always the same. “Don’t ask any questions.”
The older I was the more I begged to know about what had happened to him, and the more I asked the more agitated he became. At some point, my desire for him not to be upset outweighed my need for information. Now that he is gone it’s one of my biggest regrets. As I grew into adulthood, I should have convinced him that I was ready to hear his history. I should have insisted that this was part of my identity too, and I would bear witness to that history and carry it responsibly. If I just knew some of what I don’t know maybe I would be a better advocate for Holocaust education. Perhaps a better speaker that would make more of an impact on those students I speak to.
This gnawing need that left me with a hole in my persona fueled my research efforts. I began with knowing only my grandfather’s name, birthdate, and the name of his hometown in Poland. It was a starting point, not a great one but a starting point. I initiated my online exploration spending hours on several sites typing in every combination of known facts and variations of the spelling of his name. Emails were sent to anyone I thought could offer the slightest bit of assistance. I waited for responses that took weeks, even months of patiently wishing that I would get some type of response.
The day that I received an email from Yad Vashem was an amazing day of discovery. Suddenly, I had digital copies of lists of Jews which included his name, his prisoner registration card, and so many documents in a language I could not read. Yet there was no mistaking the one word that connected so many of these documents—Jude. It astounds me how well the Nazis kept records. The sheer number of lists I received is amazing. I spent the better part of the day at my kitchen table looking at the documents and trying to translate them. Suddenly I noticed his signature on one of them. I tried to imagine him signing that simple piece of paper. Such an everyday thing to do, but at that moment I’m sure it felt as if this time signing his name could be a life-or-death moment. My mind often wanders, and I try to envision what my grandfather would have done in the horrendous situations he faced. I have to stop myself knowing that this is undoubtedly what my grandfather wanted to shield me from.
There was no mistaking the one word that connected so many of these documents—Jude. It astounds me how well the Nazis kept records.
From that first day of uncovering our history something in me changed. All this research started just after COVID lockdown when I had lost my job. My new knowledge made me realize that what I wanted to do was educate. I immediately went to the Holocaust Museum Houston website and requested information about becoming a volunteer. Soon, I found myself interviewing for their docent program. I had no idea how much work would go into completing the docent program. Weeks of classes and practicing. Reading every book and watching every documentary I could and learning how to get through a tour without crying. As my training came to an end it was clear I had found my true calling. Most of my tours are with school groups. Some students have no knowledge of the Holocaust when they visit the museum; some have already had an in-depth lesson. No matter what their level of understanding, my goal is always the same. I aim to give them as much information about the Holocaust and how it happened with a touch of my family history.
I found myself a part of a community at the museum that I didn’t even know was exactly what I needed in my life. It might sound strange but sometimes that museum feels like home to me. I became involved with the survivor and descendant groups, a board member, joined committees, became an instructor for new docents, and a public speaker.
People often tell me they are sure my grandfather would be so proud of me. Frankly, he would be very unhappy about it. He would say something like “teach people something else.” Once I was in the museum and was cornered by someone spewing anti-Semitic rhetoric. It was very frightening but somehow, I stayed calm and thankfully we have an amazing security team at the museum. When it was over and I took a few minutes to gather myself I could hear my grandfather telling me that should be the last time I ever set foot in the museum. That is exactly what he would have said; he would have forbidden me from going back. That day I looked up and said, “Sorry but I won’t stop. This is my life’s work now.”
I’m still doing research and searching for more information now incorporating my grandmother. My wish is that I will have the gaps in our story filled in as much as possible. I know that this is something that may not be possible. I want these stories to continue long after I’m gone. We should all aim for these stories to be told for thousands of years. Let these stories remind people what can happen when hate goes unchecked, when democracy fractures, and when humans forget that in essence we are all the same.
