A Cat a Blanket and the Nazis

Back in ’69, I was a nineteen-year-old hippie living alternately in my car and at my parent’s apartment in Queens. On a chilly autumn night, taking advantage of my parent’s hospitality and in need of warmer clothes, I opened their storage closet, liberated the raunchiest old blanket I could find and turned it into a poncho.

That next night, when my father saw me wearing it, he calmly told me that it had been the blanket with which he rescued his cat when the Nazis burned down his house.

My father rarely talked about his childhood in Nazi Germany.

I’d never heard about the fire, and he’d never mentioned his cat. In fact, I knew virtually nothing about my father’s childhood in Nazi Germany.

I knew only that there was a day when all the gentile kids turned on him and the other Jewish boy in town, beating them without explanation. I knew that his teacher, wearing a Nazi uniform had instigated the beating. I also knew that his teacher had ordered all the kids, including the Jewish boys, to march through the town declaring the Jews were the enemy of Germany. He mentioned being ostracized and often beaten over a three year period, but only in passing and with few details.

Beyond that, he had not spoken of those days.

And I never asked.

A few weeks ago I read Out of Broken Glass by Sel Hubert, a renowned writer, and lecturer, who also happened to be the other Jewish boy tormented on that day and the many to follow.

He mentions my father’s full name, several times. Seeing his name and reading a quote from the ten-year-old boy who would be my father, brought me a chill and a prolonged period of saline blindness.

I regret that my father is not alive to hear me tell him I understand.

I read the book cover to cover in two sittings. I thought of the horror that these young boys and their families endured.

And I finally understood the damage done to that innocent little boy who would become my Dad.

Upon learning of their teacher’s Nazi affiliation, Sel’s family was able to send him to school in Neurenberg. By the time he returned, my father’s house had already been burned to the ground and most of the family had emigrated to the States.

Thanks to the kindness of the people, of Kindertransport, both Jews, and Gentiles, Sel spent his youth in England. His parents were not as lucky. They died on the side of a country road, shot by Nazi soldiers who couldn’t be bothered to drive them all the way to the camp.

I’ve never seen Schindler’s List. I can’t watch any movie that depicts the horrors of Hitler and his minions. I confess, however cheering at the end of Inglourious Basterds a few times.

I’ve also not been able to bring myself to visit a Holocaust museum. I fear my stoicism would fail me. But what right have I who breathe today, thanks to the foresight of those who suffered so much, to shield myself from the pain and outrage that by virtue of blood is rightfully mine?

I watch the turn of events here in the States closely and wonder if I’m seeing the same signs that precipitated my grandfather’s decision to take that voyage across the ocean to safety?

We’re a long way from having an American Kristallnacht (unless you’re Hispanic or Muslim, Black, Asian or Native ) but I wonder how many people who said, “It can’t happen here.” died in the camps.

“Never again” means being vigilant, It also means having compassion and empathy and standing up for all those who are victimized by the forces of hatred, as so many did for my people the last time evil became pandemic.

But as I, belly full, showered and comfortable prepare for sleep, I am disturbed by this thought, in the twentieth century an alliance of nations brought down a Monster. In the twenty-first century, who will be the allies and who the monsters?