Thank you for inviting me to address you. I welcome the opportunity to help initiate the dialogue to take place over the next few days. I hope that the thoughts that derive from my being a child survivor will in some way reflect your thoughts as well. Like you, it took a long time for me to put words to my preoccupations and even longer to offer them publicly. For they remained hidden, safely hidden from view, even from family- no, especially from family. After all, what could we say about our past? What could we say to those we love?

      That we suffered separations from all those we had loved and who had loved us? That we were living a double life, with multiple identities, unsure which identity was safe or acceptable? That we had an identity for public consumption and another hidden within a wounded soul? That we struggled with diminished self-worth and doubt? That we were enveloped in silence, first enforced from the outside, then self-imposed from the inside? That we were consumed with guilt or grief or both? Who would have listened to us? Who would have understood?

     When we look back what in fact do we see? Going back to the 1930’s and 40’s we can retrace the origins to a devastating beginning- a disruption of all that is good and decent and predictable in a child’s life. And although the war raged for six years, even its end was not the end for us. Liberation did not actually free us.

     It merely initiated a prolonged period of doubt and uncertainty, the only certainty being the gradual confirmation of the losses we had anticipated but for which we were not prepared. It was a time of the shattering even of hope, in already shattered lives. What to do? How to handle all this? What to make of it all?

     We mastered silence. First and foremost, we harnessed the skills of silence that were so necessary to our survival. Normally playful, loud, boisterous, demanding, crying, laughing, we were the children who at age two or five or nine, learned to be quiet, courteous, co-operative and respectful. Few of us cried during hiding. And few of us cried after. There was a fear that I have heard expressed many times that “if I began to cry I might never stop.” Those who were able to cry felt a little better but even they seldom, if ever, cried in public. After all, children might be asked by well-meaning adults why they are crying? And what could we say in response? So we kept silent. None of us wanted to be pitied, we only wanted to be accepted.

     In addition to the mastery of silence, we discovered how to live a double life, one life of comparative normality alongside a life filled with memories of danger, hunger, fear and grief. And so it became possible to pursue studies, find work, establish careers, marry and raise families, all the while controlling the companions of the past, with more or less success. Occasionally, our balancing act was disrupted by an unexpected intrusion of the past, triggering a response that had to be fought to bring under control.

     My latest such intrusion came last September, in Holland. My wife, youngest daughter and I, were visiting my sister Nora, the daughter of my Christian hiders in The Hague. We went to a beach town nearby for lunch and Nora spotted her Uncle, Oom Jan (Uncle John). He was, at age 88, the last living brother of my beloved Vader, Albert Munnik. In fact, the resemblance was strong. He was overjoyed to see his little Robbie. The entire large Munnik family had been aware that there was a little Jewish boy in the family and he shared some stories and answered my questions. I asked him if he was the Uncle who raised rabbits on the rooftop, some of which we ate. No, he said, that was his brother, Harry. So it must have been Uncle Harry we visited shortly after liberation because I recall being on a roof and being bitten by one of the rabbits. Of course, I didn’t cry. Not yet. It was not in my repertoire of responses.

     We said good-bye and hailed a taxi to take Nora back to her home. The women sat in the back and I in the front with a good-natured cab driver. And all of a sudden I began to cry, no, sob and I heard myself trying to explain, half turned in my seat “It never goes away, it never goes away.” And then it was over. We cannot predict when that other world will intrude to whisk us back into that vale of unexpressed sorrow.

      Ironically, it is at the happiest of events-weddings, B’nei Mitzvoth, graduations-that our parallel lives are at the greatest risk of exposure. For the happiest moments bring into stark relief, what might have been and the absence of those who might have been there. And now, 60 years later, when we are indeed losing family and friends, their loss triggers not only the immediate, contemporary grief but also the grief buried in our historical past.

     My mother died on April 8, 2004 aged either 88 or 89, depending on which of her several birthdates in Poland was correct. She was a courageous woman who did not complain, particularly of her failing health. She admitted to feeling weaker over the years but there was no particular forewarning to her final illness, undetected by her doctors and unsuspected by me. But she knew. And I should have known. For only a few weeks earlier, after her weekly visit to our home for Shabbat dinner, when I brought her home, she thanked me and I kissed her goodnight. This time she called me back. “Rob, I’ve never apologized to you for giving you away. I’m sorry.” I was taken aback. “Mam, you saved my life. There is nothing to apologize for. My G-D, you did the right thing. None of us would have made it.”

     “No”, she said, “A mother should never give up her child and I am sorry.” Where did this come from?  The most obvious source was her seeing her new grand-daughter, aged 4 months. The joy of holding her had triggered the memory and the sadness of giving me up. Less obvious was the fact that she was preparing for her imminent death which she sensed but which could not yet be detected medically. Her symptoms were vague until near the end. It all evolved over perhaps 6 weeks and I was with her when she drew her last breath. 

     When my survivor-friends came to offer their condolences, my knowing which of them had lost their mothers in the war when they mere infants or children, I could barely accept their sympathy, aware of my comparatively privileged life in having her for 60 years. It amazed me that none appeared at all envious and their sorrow was genuine.

       And then, amongst many cards and calls, I received this letter, most of which I will share with you, for it reveals great caring and wisdom, and has implications and messages to us from the second generation. It was written by Barry Dunner, a friend whose mother, Elsie, was a Schindler’s list survivor and who had participated in our Holocaust Education programs until shortly before her passing. Here, of course with his permission, is the essence of what Barry wrote.

 “Dear Rob, 

     I have not had the opportunity to express my condolences on the loss of your mother. I attended Shivah one evening at your home and I wish to share my thoughts with you now. It was a damp and rainy evening. I walked up the steps to your house and opened the door. Your home was full and I found myself at the back of the entrance hallway. I looked around the room and observed several family photos on the wall. I felt like a voyeur, looking into a family’s private moments. Then I noticed that the entire wall was filled with family photos! In that moment my mind raced. I had an epiphany. It was obvious that your mother (and father, too) enjoyed a wonderful life with their family, partaking in the marriage of their children and the births, and other important life cycle celebrations with their grandchildren. 

     I had never known my grandparents. They were not able to participate in my bar mitzvah or marriage. We never shared even the simple joys of life together –babysitting, Shabbat dinners, going to the park, watching TV. I never experienced these simple, yet important, family moments. It is only now, as an adult and as a parent, that I observe the relationship that my children enjoy with their grandparents, (on my wife’s side) and realize what I have missed.

At Shivah at your home that evening, I felt that you were truly blessed to have your parents participate in so many aspects of your family life. Even though this was a house of Shivah, at that moment I did not feel sad for your loss.

     I looked at the wall again-but not as a voyeur. Now I saw a family tree. For me, this seemingly simple wall of photos transformed into a chronicle of three and four generations of a family-a family that grew out of the ashes of the Holocaust, a family that is still expanding. And at that moment I thought, “Hitler lost”. And this wall, simply and elegantly, documented this fact.

     On the way home I continued with my train of thought. Many Jewish families have similar areas in their homes designated to family photos and cherished memories. We, too, have such a wall in our home. I’ll never again look at these arrangements as mere photo collages. Instead, I shall view them as testaments to the spirit and determination of our people.

     The first thing I did when I arrived home was to look at our photo-laden wall. Then, as every night, I kissed my kids goodnight and recited Shemah Yisrael to them.

     I hope these thoughts may slightly dampen the pain of your loss and offer some comfort and consolation. Perhaps my Shivah call was not fulfilled in the traditional way at your home that evening, but rather through the ideas expressed in this letter.

     May your mother’s memory be a blessing. ”

     What can we learn from this touching and eloquent letter to a mourner? Barry states he had not known his grandparents. Of course not, they were murdered. Like mine. That is the fate of the second generation, to live with survivor parents, bereft of grandparents, uncles and aunts. I lost my 2 uncles and 3 aunts as well. Only my cousin survived but his parents were murdered. Therefore he is a first generation child survivor. Because my parents returned, in addition to being a first generation child survivor, I was also a second- generation child to my parents. Without them, my children would also have grown up without grandparents on my side.

      So Barry and I, save for our age difference, have lived similar lives. For example, without grandparents or other older relatives, neither of us lost a close family member, namely a parent, until we were in our forties and fifties. This peculiarity of having no practice with immediate death through the natural loss of grandparents or elderly aunts of uncles is completely overshadowed by the ever-present spectre of death through the unnatural losses sustained by our parents.

     We know far too much of death, yet are woefully unprepared for the real thing. No practice, no preparation. Then suddenly at age 40 or 50, a survivor-parent dies and we adults are confronted with death and loss magnified by our lack of preparedness and intensified by the grief residing in our families.

      We must also consider this. Second generation children were born to survivors as early as the mid-to later 1940’s in displaced persons camps, and en route to other countries. Many are now in their fifties. Those born to the adult survivors in the 40’s, 50’s, even 60’s, are commonly referred to as the second generation offspring of Holocaust survivors.

     There is another group of second generation, seldom considered separately. They are the children of the child survivors who had their families after settling in new countries, often completing an education and then establishing their careers.  Although I am second generation in relation to my survivor parents, as a child survivor myself, my children are second generation and they are 30 years of age and younger, an entirely different demographic. My children, as perhaps many of yours, grew up in the 70’s and 80’s, not the 50’s and 60’s. What are some of the implications of this phenomenon?

     The children of child survivors are further removed from the war in time, less likely to have been born in a refugee-like setting or in transit, born to parents more settled and integrated into their communities, and who perhaps speak their new language more fluently, thereby better able to conceal their past. They may be more assimilated, less schooled in Judaism, living in families where the survivor-parent went to school and achieved careers in professions rather than business.

     These generalizations are only that: generalizations. More thought, more discussion is required to assess the possible impact of distinguishing between the two sets of second generation, those born to adult survivors and those born to child survivors. 

     My friend and colleague, Dr. Peter Suedfeld who is a child survivor from Budapest and professor emeritus of Psychology at the University of British Columbia, and myself had enlisted your help to gather some information at two previous gatherings of child survivors, one in Montreal in 1994 and in Los Angeles in 1995.

     As we know from large-scale studies, Holocaust survivors and their children function within the normal range as compared with those Jews born in North America and elsewhere, safely away from the grasp of Nazi–occupied Europe. Individual case studies are more likely to reveal the ravages of Holocaust trauma but this does not manifest itself in specific symptoms in the wider community.

     So what did we find in our survey of 57 responses to a questionnaire on child Holocaust survivors as parents?

     As one example, the LA questionnaire posed 2 main questions:

1) What were the major principles that you tried to follow in raising your children? 2) How are the relationships between you and your children now?

     Based on the existing literature and personal encounters with survivors, Peter and I predicted that the likely answer to question 1 would center on issues concerning vigilance, being prepared for possible catastrophe, suspicion of others (particularly non-Jews), an emphasis on education, material security and independence, a continuing struggle with Judaism and identity, an appreciation for living life to the fullest, a commitment to the legacy of Holocaust remembrance.

     The actual responses to question 1 involved primarily the importance of teaching respect for and acceptance of others, honesty and sharing, providing an education and demonstrating love.

     Pertaining to question 2 about relationships, the child survivors described them mostly as loving, sometimes closer with one child than another, and generally open with good communication. In the smaller survey, 5 of 22 parents considered their relationship as strained or poor.

     A question in the Montreal survey asked what is the best thing that ever happened to you? The answer was overwhelmingly, “my children”. We concluded that “the general perception of parent-child relationships as loving and open with some strain” and that is certainly not dramatically different from the general community, especially in light of the knowledge that the child survivor parents suffered severe hardship in developmentally sensitive times.

    However, from the second generation perspective, clinical observations reveal a great sensitivity to the pain experienced by parents, and wanting to always be the bearer of good news, high marks, the avoidance of potentially painful questions about the Holocaust, evidence of popularity: in short, a caretaker function designed not to hurt further the parents who already carry such a great burden.

     Of particular interest is the fact that the parental pride in their children is not necessarily communicated to them.  As a consequence, the children feel they have failed to meet the parents’ expectations. Their recollections include feeling they were rarely praised but lavishly criticized.

     While the survivor-parents felt they were indeed providing non-materialistic values such as the value of learning and of the importance of family, the second generation perceived their parents as preoccupied with work, and providing mostly the material necessities but not the humanistic values.

     The mystery is how in fact the second- generation offspring of adult survivors has become so disproportionately represented in the helping professions. This issue is somewhat clearer in the children of child survivors who themselves are frequently   engaged in professions concerning the care of children or the aged, or conducting research into topics concerning the human condition. Of course, the parents credit themselves with the achievements of their children confirming their view of having transmitted certain core values.

     One additional observation. The survivor parents attempted to protect their children from knowing of the horrible experiences which effort ran counter to the child’s need to know. The silence on this topic was filled with childhood fantasies occasionally even more horrifying than knowing the truth. Protecting the child sometimes exacerbated and complicated more ordinary family problems.

     When did we depart from silence and begin to reveal to each other and gradually, to others, our struggles with our war-derived problems, identities and secrets? It began only about 20 years ago. After a 40-year period of continued hiding, we emerged to begin the dialogue that continues today and tomorrow. Good for us, and good for our children. They have waited a long time to hear our stories. It is time to talk with them, with our friends, even with our politicians and the press. For our experiences, our hidden secrets, inform our knowledge and our thoughts.

      So I pose one final question for all of us to consider. Is the fact that we are child survivors of the Holocaust and children and grandchildren of survivors of any particular relevance to how we view the world?

     How does the world of 2004 look compared with 1934? Are we aware, that since the comparative innocence of the year 2000, when Prime Minister Ehud Barak offered a peace plan to Arafat at Camp David comprised of  97% of the West Bank, 100% of Gaza, and a share of Jerusalem, nearly all that the world said would satisfy its demands, that world did not turn against the rejectionist Palestinian leader but against Israel? Arafat not only ceased negotiations but launched a war of unprecedented cruelty, using his children to kill themselves and murder ours in the process.

     Now the world has turned against Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, who was elected only because Arafat served as his campaign manager, having succeeded to end Barak’s career with terror. Between 2000 and 2004, we have witnessed the vilification of Israel at the Durban conference against Racism, accused world-wide of a “massacre” at Jenin which did not occur, of a World Court of Justice ruling that Israel’s building of a fence to protect its citizens is “illegal” while the murders of Israeli Jews and Arabs is apparently not. Left-wing professors, including a good many Jews denounce Israel and shun her academics, holding forth from platforms devoted to freedom of speech which is their privilege precisely because they live in democracies like America and Israel. Have they forgotten in the heat of their own rhetoric that under fascism they would be the first to die?

     Fellow child survivors, could we have imagined that the human rights of Jews that disappeared with the rise of Nazism is now being trampled not only with the rise of Islamic fanaticism but aided and abetted by the World Court and the United Nations? Israel has become the Jew of the world. It is evidently acceptable to bash her, diminish her, and threaten her with allegations that should be directed at a hundred nations before her. And when Israel extends its hand to French Jewry to escape the current wave of Jew-hatred, President Chirac is very upset. No wonder. In 1941 there was no Israel, no hand for French Jews to grasp other than the hands of Vichy police who threw them on the deportation trains. I don’t believe him to be anti-Semitic, just anti-Israel. Therefore I would not accuse him of anti-Semitism, only of not being able to tell the difference. Martin Luther King was very clear in his recognition that anti-Zionism, denying the rights of Jews to a national home, was inherently anti-Semitic. Of course the argument is that no-one is denying Israel a homeland, just not the little one it carved out, nor the one proposed by Barak and President Clinton. And Iran simply wants to bomb it out of existence, now that Iraq no longer can.

     Per capita, Israel has suffered the equivalent of three Trade Towers per year in deaths, for the past four years. Its one thousand dead equal 40,000 Americans, or 5000 Canadians. Yet Mary Robinson, former Prime Minister of Ireland, and the recent U.N. Human Rights boss, declared the Durban conference on Racism, a success. Known to have presided over the largest anti-Semitic rally since the Third Reich did not prevent her from being awarded an honorary doctorate from McGill University. The incumbent U.N. High Commissioner of Human Rights, Madame Justice Louise Arbour of Canada has just validated the “illegal” status of the fence and suggests that Israel finds an alternate means to protect itself rather than insisting on a cessation in terrorism that would immediately make the building of a barrier unnecessary.

      So here we are, to learn about ourselves, to talk with our children, and to seek comfort with each other, and all that under the shadow of a sickness, a hatred we know all too well and which we must confront with all our strength. And we must do so united. For we Jews are perhaps too proud of our self-critical skills, our capacity to see the other side, our sensitivity and introspection. No-one else is so interested in us as we are. Only our enemies. There is no debate or self-examination between those who simply want us to disappear and/or die. 

      Let me give you one more thing to think about because it puzzles me.  I believe there exists a considerable respect for Shimon Peres. He has been through the years amongst the great defenders of Israel, as builder of its nuclear, aerospace, and military industries. He has also been Israel’s leading man of peace, convincing Yitzhak Rabin to engage in the Oslo Accords. Even now he refuses to renounce his original vision of peace. I was curious as to his viewpoint on current events. After all, as an 80-year old statesman, he has seen it all. As a lifelong Labor Party leader who has held every conceivable ministerial portfolio, and served as Prime Minister of Israel, it would prove difficult to dismiss his opinions as reflecting those of the so-called right-wing. I can remember a time when he was revered as a prominent member of the Socialist International, a group of left-wing individuals once supportive of Israel and who have now turned against Israel. What would an Israeli left-wing Labor leader of his stature say about Iraq? Of America? Of the elections? 

          In an interview (Jerusalem Post International, July 9, 2004) Shimon Peres states, “There has not been a tyrant since Hitler and Stalin like Saddam Hussein. He initiated two wars that cost a million lives. He killed Kurds and Iranians. And the whole world was quiet. Now all of a sudden there is a movement asking, “Why are you attacking Saddam Hussein?” Where were they then? If Europe would have gone to war against Hitler two years earlier, history would have been different. Saddam Hussein was the most immoral creature in recent years. A dangerous murderer. Now all the focus is on the weapons of mass destruction. He used gas against Iran. He killed Kurds (with gas). So what still needs to happen? Do you have to find the bomb sitting on a shelf? He made gas and used it, he could do it again tomorrow. I think it was a courageous decision at the right time.” 

     In response to a question whether America has the staying power, Peres responded, “They have no choice. And it doesn’t depend on the US elections. Whoever wins cannot just get up and leave. In Iraq you either have a cruel tyranny, or democracy of the sophisticated.”

            Fellow child survivors, children of, grandchildren of, this is no time to demonstrate our debating skills with one another, this is not the time to examine every conceivable flaw as if some magical revelation could stave off the enemy. Nothing that Israel has done can account for the unprecedented campaign of terror against her, and precious little can account for the wave of anti-Semitism against Jews in Europe and against Israel, precisely when Israel had made its 2000 peace overture. This is a hatred that defies analysis. This is a hatred that must not divide us. This is a hatred that must be faced with resolve. And nothing that America did, no matter how it is portrayed, can account for the wanton murder of 3000 souls on its soil, a murder that has been followed by an outpouring of conspiracy theories and lies by the followers of fanatic regimes, and by breast-beating individuals ostensibly searching for the reasons we brought these tragedies upon ourselves.  They will not find the reasons, not amongst the poor, not even amongst the dispossessed.

     It is a time for being together, supporting one another, our fellow Jews, our friends, the democratic nations of the world, and particularly, Israel. Who would have thought that we little children would see this again in our lifetime? But now that we do, let us find strength with each other and be together. Let us try to get on the same page in order to survive this renewed assault on our existence. We have earned the right to say “I am a child who survived the Holocaust and have experienced and seen things that affect me to this day. And I am frightened not only for my children but for yours as well. The margin between our victimization and yours is smaller than you think. Listen to us. We know. Take care of us. Protect your Jews. Protect Israel. Then we may all still have a chance to live our lives in security and freedom.”