by Rabbi Efrem Goldberg
Seeing the images of the pogrom in Amsterdam, I’ve been thinking of my courageous grandmother who marched in Gestapo headquarters and stood up to the Nazis.
After spreading a call to “hunt Jews” in a premeditated attack, Arab gangs chased, beat, and indeed hunted Jews in the streets of Amsterdam. Some were rammed with cars, others kicked and spit on, still others forced to jump into freezing rivers to escape.
The pogrom in Amsterdam, which took place two days before the anniversary of Kristallnacht, was a harsh and painful reminder that the more things change, the more they say the same.
The same country in which Anne Frank was forced to hide and that failed to protect or hold perpetrators accountable then, once again had Jews hiding and left unprotected.
Eighty-six years after the night of broken glass, Jews in Europe were once again abandoned and unprotected, forcing some to again try protect themselves by crying out, “I’m not Jewish.” The same country in which Anne Frank was forced to hide and that failed to protect or hold perpetrators accountable then, once again had Jews hiding and left unprotected.
Nearly nine decades after Anne Frank, the media continues to downplay Jew hatred with the New York Times, Reuters, and the Associated Press describing the incident as “violence tied to a soccer game.” Now, as then, Jews are made to feel alone, isolated, needing the courage to take care of ourselves.
Confronting the Gestapo
While Kristallnacht is probably the most famous day of rage against the Jews of Europe in the 1930’s, it wasn’t the first and was far from an isolated event. My grandfather operated a stand selling women’s garments in the outdoor Spandau market in Berlin, Germany. One day, Nazis attacked the market, destroying his merchandise and beating him. My grandparents were living in Germany but my grandfather was a Polish national.
The Nazis passed a cruel law expelling all those living in Germany who were not German nationals. He and his father-in-law had Polish passports, but Poland wasn’t letting anyone in, leaving them deported to “no man’s land,” along the border between Poland and Germany. He had family who had immigrated to America who agreed to sponsor him and his family, but my grandfather was still waiting for the papers to arrive that would allow them to emigrate to America.
In the meantime, my grandmother moved in with her mother in Berlin, helping them run the family clothing business. On November 9, 1938, Herschel Grynszpan, a 17-year-old German-born Polish Jew living in Paris, assassinated a German diplomat, Enst vom Rath. This set off one of the worst pogroms in our history, a “night of broken glass,” with rioters destroying 267 shuls throughout Germany, Austria, and the Sudetenland. Seven thousand Jewish businesses were damaged or destroyed and 30,000 Jewish men were arrested and sent to concentration camps.
My grandmother’s maiden name was Grynszpan and she was therefore immediately arrested along with her baby and mother. They were interrogated until it could be ascertained that she was not related to the perpetrator. They were released but shaken from the experience.
Finally, the papers from the family in America arrived but my grandfather was still in No Man’s Land. Only the Gestapo could give the approval for him to return so they could emigrate as a family. Against all odds, my grandmother was determined to save her family. She identified the office she needed to visit and the Gestapo officer who could stamp the required papers. She ran around the block several times until she was out of breath and she pinched her own checks until they were bright red.
She pushed her way into his office and with all 4 foot 10 inches of her being, brazenly pled with the officer to stamp the paper.
She rushed past the guard at Gestapo Headquarters saying she was late for an important meeting and ran up the stairs to his office, pretending to have an appointment. She pushed her way into his office and with all 4 foot 10 inches of her being, pled with the officer to stamp the paper, bring her husband home and allow them to emigrate with their baby to America.
Not surprisingly, he refused. She walked over to the window and pointed out towards a bridge over a river. She said, “If you don’t stamp the papers, you will have to look out this window and watch me jump off the bridge with my baby, killing ourselves, as there is no point to living if my husband doesn’t come home.”
That moment could have gone several ways and could have easily cost her her life, but the otherwise cruel officer was caught off guard by the courage, brazenness and chutzpah of this tiny woman and he stamped the papers, enabling them to sail on the SS Manhattan in April 1939.
The parents and siblings (other than one brother who had already moved to Palestine) they left behind were all murdered in the Holocaust; I carry the names of two of my grandfather’s brothers, Efraim and Chaim.
Grateful to have escaped with their child but traumatized by what they had been through, my grandparents didn’t intend on having any more children. But after settling in Jersey City, one night my grandmother heard her daughter looking out the window praying to G-d for a sibling. He answered her prayer and my father was born.
She’s the Reason I Am Here
Of course, countless victims of the Holocaust didn’t have the opportunity to advocate for themselves and their family and countless others were brutally murdered for trying. But after seeing the images out of Amsterdam this week, I was thinking about my grandmother, Rose Goldberg ob”m, her bravery, conviction, tenacity and boldness.
She was determined and stubborn. She was courageous and daring. She didn’t relinquish her fate or future to others, she was resolute in protecting and securing herself and her family. She is the reason I am here.
