Nov 12, 2024

I presented my father’s story again this morning, this time at the Mariengymnasium in Bocholt. This happens to be the school my Oma attended! There were about 70 students and a handful of teachers and others in the large classroom. The students were attentive the entire time. When I finished, I asked who had questions.

There was total silence.

I counted to ten. Still, silence.

I acknowledged that it might take a while to think of questions, that they could let their teacher know any questions they think of later and he would email me. Then I invited them to view copies of photos and documents I brought, and to examine my father’s yellow Jood star that I was holding.

Slowly, they rose. They began moving toward the photos and started talking to each other. Some students approached me to see the yellow star. Then more. Then more. Some asked questions. One shared that her own Oma was six years old at the time of the war and was living on a farm. The grandmother didn’t know too much about the war, as her parents hadn’t shared their worries. But she knew something wasn’t right. This student’s grandmother wasn’t in hiding since she was not Jewish, but she still carried trauma. Other students talked about generational trauma. The students said they would have talked to me all day if they could.

We went from total silence to a conversation in which we connected. We came from very different places. Yet, we all wanted the same thing—to heal ourselves in whatever way we needed to heal, and to connect in a meaningful way. I was struck by the heaviness I felt these high school students absorbed due to the history of their country. I hoped they would be able to find healing from their own inherited trauma.

After lunch, we traveled to Aalten, the Netherlands. This is the town to which my grandfather smuggled his own money. He left it with the local cantor, who deposited it into a bank account managed by a relative of ours. We saw the home of the cantor and entered the synagogue next door. I kissed the Torahs that were in tucked away in their ark. Somone had protected them during the war by storing them under the floor boards. We also viewed the small mikvah (ritual bath).

We found the Remembrance book of the Jews of the Netherlands, in which 102,000 names of the Jewish people who had perished were listed. We located the names of my grandfather, Moritz Stern; my Uncle Kurt; Abraham (Harry) Slager, who managed the smuggled funds; and Harry’s son, Max, who was murdered at the age of seven.

Then we visited the Onderduik Museum, the museum of hiding. There’s too much to share in this post, but it was immensely interesting and moving. A couple of people I’ve been corresponding with met us there, so we finally got to meet in person.

We ended our day with another set of cultural events. We had dinner of döner (kebab). There are many döner places in Bocholt and we were directed to the “best” one. Then we played Kegelbahn, German bowling! It was a difficult game, and the rules our different than what we expected.

However … bragging here … I won. By a lot.

But really, we all won. A lot. This day was another moving and meaningful day for each one of us. And so many of the people we met today felt the same way.

Featured photo: View of the Aalten Synagogue (right) and former cantor’s home (left). Note the Magen Davids (stars of David) in the brickwork near the top, middle of each building.

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