It was as if a dam had been breached. Bottled-up emotions burst forth. They wept, removed their jackets, loosened their ties and began to express shock, disbelief, pain and guilt that so many of their close colleagues had been killed, while somehow, they had escaped. I understood, and I identified quite strongly with their emotions. As we talked, I tried to provide them with the hope that in time, they would recover, just as I have.
The group counseling session was interspersed with spiritual songs, led by one of the executives who was a church minister. The communal singing also helped to ease their pain. After several hours, some came to acknowledge that gratitude at having survived was a more constructive emotion than guilt. That was progress. On the way home to New Jersey, my colleague and I discussed the strength needed to get by in life and decided to set up support groups for people affected by the terrorist attack. That project lasted for years.
I only played a small part in the aftermath of 9/11. But the experience reinforced my conviction that sharing my Holocaust story publicly could be a powerful force. Talking about it not only reminds people of the evil that took place, but can also help them to see the ability in each of us to overcome.
I began public speaking in the early 1990s when I was fifty-four years old. My first engagement was at a school, with an audience of 200 children aged twelve to fourteen. I was outlining how my mother had sacrificed so much for me. An image of Mama floated in front of my eyes as I described her giving me her last piece of bread and saying, “I’m not hungry”.
Suddenly, I started crying. Me. The girl who couldn’t and wouldn’t cry in Auschwitz. I was extraordinarily embarrassed by my tears, and to my surprise, the children began applauding. I was deeply touched by their response and by the letters that followed, especially one from a twelve-year-old girl. “Mrs. Friedman”, she wrote. “I’m sorry your experience was difficult to share, but thank you. I now know how important family is. I will be nicer to my brother”.
The reaction from the students spurred me on to share my experiences far and wide. Supported by Maier, I spoke at synagogues, churches, colleges and prisons, where even the toughest criminals could be moved, learn something about themselves and perhaps change as a result.
“I’m not Jewish and I knew nothing about the Holocaust”, wrote one inmate. “But I never realized before just what violence and cruelty can do. I am in prison because of my own actions, but you were imprisoned by blind prejudice and hatred”.
The need to remind people to be vigilant about anti-Semitism and hatred is constant. The Raritan Valley Community College near my home in New Jersey established the Institute of Holocaust and Genocide Studies in 1981. I joined the committee to bolster their mission to educate students and others about people’s capacity for inhumanity and injustice, as well as the importance of nurturing compassion and resilience. I believe passionately in sharing the lessons of the Holocaust. Maybe if one can teach people to identify the danger signals, there’s a chance of preventing another round of genocide.
Every year, thousands of students come to the college to hear survivors share their stories. Invariably, a flood of letters follows, with young people unburdening themselves of a multitude of personal struggles, including parental divorce, bereavement and bullying. Regardless of race, creed or sexual orientation, people have the same need for intimacy, inclusion and safety. At speaking engagements across the country, I have tried to use my story of survival to instill audiences with hope, courage and self-confidence. They often seek answers to life’s fundamental questions. They’ve asked whether I believe in God, if I could trust people or whether I could forgive.
I answer as honestly as I can. I do believe in God, but not necessarily the biblical one. Trust is essential and I never lost my faith in humanity, despite my experiences. As for forgiveness — in Judaism, only the living can forgive. I have no authority to forgive on behalf of those who have been slaughtered.
We all hope to be remembered by family, friends and colleagues. We write books, build monuments and establish institutions to attest to our existence. But the murdered millions of the Holocaust left few traces. An inferno engulfed everything about them, including their legacies. I speak to honor and remember mothers, fathers, children and grandparents who went to their deaths because of our religion. I’m always guided by the scene witnessed by my father in Tomaszów Mazowiecki, as a rabbi climbed into a cattle car to Treblinka.
“Save yourself, my sons”, the rabbi had implored. “And remember me”.
I fervently hope my efforts have not been in vain and that my audiences will keep the memory of the Shoah alive. There has, however, been a price for committing to a life of remembrance. After my traumatic childhood, I have constantly sought inner peace. But my tranquility has been disturbed throughout adult life by nightmares of being hungry, chased and shot. As my family grew, so did the nightmares, as I dreamed about my children facing the same terrors that eliminated their ancestors.
There were other unintended consequences that occurred as a result of my history and the path I chose. I was a complicated mother and parenting was a challenge. Having had neither a conventional childhood nor a conventional mother, I had to develop my own style. My mother’s ideas of exposing me to the reality of life was always foremost in my mind. Many survivors protect their children by not exposing them, but I shared my own story with Risa, Gadi, Taya and Shani as soon as they were mature enough and the timing was appropriate.
My emphasis, however, was never on the horrors I witnessed and experienced, but on their grandparents’ bravery and ingenuity during that time. They would never meet my mother, so I wanted them to know her through me. Living in Israel — a country surrounded by enemies — was very conducive to helping them face reality. It took strength and determination for us to live fearlessly. They learned to be vigilant, self-protective and self-sufficient in both school and our home. We had very few rules for the children. They could stay up as late as they wanted to, as long as they made it to school the next morning. If their grades were good and they were home for dinner, they were pretty much free to spend their days as they chose. For us, this type of parenting fostered trust and a relaxed home atmosphere.
When we returned to the US in 1977, we announced that ours would be a no-television home, as we did not want to expose the children to America’s materialism and consumerism. Our dinnertime discussions always started with recounting our days. We would invariably turn to politics and current events, but we would often end on a topic related to Judaism, Zionism and social justice. Subjects close to our hearts.
The time I spent working and sharing my story meant less time for my family. They were never anything other than supportive, however, and though I never missed a graduation or recital, Maier was the one who drove the children to most soccer practices, doctor visits and parent-teacher conferences. He loved it and especially enjoyed just playing with the children when they were young, which is something I never learned to do.
He was truly a Renaissance man. Maier not only had a PhD from Columbia in biochemical engineering and two master’s from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in nuclear engineering, but he also loved music, art, literature, politics and puzzles. To him, problems were just engineering challenges and puzzles could always be solved with the proper tool, method and sense of humor. He spent countless hours teaching, sharing and theorizing with the children about everything from their latest homework assignments to the current state of the world.