(Author: Marlene Bethlehem, Vol. 72, #2, Rosh Hashanah 2017)
It is an honour and a privilege to have been asked to address you today on International Holocaust Remembrance Day. We gather here in Germany, to witness, to remember, to ask what we can do to honour the memories of so ma ny.
I address you in the City of Hanover, where the deportation Jews began on 15 December 1941. It was not the only deportation.
I address you in the presence of survivors of the Shoah who have joined us here today. To the survivors I say, we can never understand the extent of your suffering or your resilience, but we honour you from the depth of our souls.
On this solemn day I will talk of both the past and of the present.
Let me begin with reference to another visitor to Germany, US President John F. Kennedy, who when visiting West Berlin in June 1963, famously declared, “Ich bin ein Berliner”.
Kennedy was speaking at a time when things were very different from what they are now. The Iron Curtain was firmly in place. A wall divided the city of Berlin. Apartheid was at its height in South Africa.
Kennedy made his famous declaration in defence of democracy. He made his declaration to express solidarity with the German people in the face of Soviet backed dictatorship. He was expressing his support for freedom of movement, freedom of opinion and freedom of religion. He went on to say: “Freedom is indivisible, and when one person is enslaved, all are not free. When all are free, then we can look forward to that day when the city of Berlin will be joined as one and this country and this great continent of Europe in a peaceful and hopeful globe.”
But of course, at that time, most of Europe was only beginning to rise from the ashes of World War II. Kennedy was speaking only eighteen years after the defeat of the Nazi regime. Less than twenty years after the shadow of death finally began to lift from this great continent.
Many of Kennedy’s hopes were fulfilled. Berlin was reunited. And then all of Germany. And then the whole of Europe took the bold step of establishing the European Union. What a great achievement this was.
And so, things are very different from the day that Kennedy spoke. But some things are the same. The shadow of the World War II, and of the Holocaust in particular, has not lifted entirely. Indeed, there are ominous signs that the spectre of racism may again be raising its ugly head in Europe and other parts of the world – signs that fascist ideas may again be taking hold, that ordinary people will again be misled into hatred.
Today, I will try to conjure up the past. I will remind us of its consequences. I will reflect on what it means for the present.
Today I will stand in Hanover, and say, “Ich bin Deutsche”.
Like Kennedy, I say this to identify myself with the principles of freedom and inclusivity.
I say this to remind us of the consequences of racism, of name calling, of forgetting for even a moment that all human beings are equal, and all equally deserving of a decent life. I say this in solidarity with the people of Aleppo, and many other cities whose citizens have been forced to flee. In particular, I say this to honour and commend the people of Germany for accepting so many refugees into their midst. To commend you for the way in which you have taken on this global responsibility.
I say this also to remember those murdered at the Christmas market in Berlin last month. No one deserves such terror, much less a community that has done so much for those fleeing war and persecution.
But I also I make this declaration for other, more personal reasons. I say, “Ich bin Deutsche”.
I also say, “Ich bin Jüdin” – I am a Jew. I also say, I am a South African. I have inherited the legacy of Nelson Mandela. How can all of this be true?
The Holocaust, the events we remember today, can only be understood one person at a time. Six million were killed, and let us never forget each of these victims was a person and not a number. Each one was an entire world.
Allow me tell you a story. The story of one person, one family. One mother, her husband and child. Let us hear what became of them.
I will tell you the story of a woman named Judit Gerson. Born in Tilzit, near Konigsberg, in what was then Prussia, Judit was one of eight siblings. Her name Judith – or Yehudit in Hebrew – means Jew. She was a Jew. She lived as such. She died as such. She has a name. She does not have a grave.
Judit’s family were Jews and they were German. For them, for a time, there was no contradiction between the two. Her father Eugene served in the Prussian army. The names of some of her siblings – Helmut, Arno, Siegfried, Lotta and Leo – reflect a deep connection to German culture. The names of other siblings – Yaakov and Nathan – reflect a deep connection to Jewish life.
Judit grew up, attended school and synagogue, and married another German Jew, Reinhold Gutfeld. In 1934, they had a little boy and called him Josse after the great Jewish chazzan Yoselin Rosenblatt. Like Moses in Egypt, Josse was born under a cloud. Like Pharaoh in Egypt, the murderers of Jewish children were beginning to stir. Like Moses, Josse was destined to be saved.
As Josse began to take his first steps, the world began to darken. Here in Germany, Hitler’s influence began to grow. Judith’s family, wary of the threats to Jews, looked for ways to escape. Judit’s parents and some of her siblings made their way to Israel, which was then Palestine and some of her siblings went to South Africa. They found ways to leave Germany even though they had to give up so much. About half of all German Jews left the country at this stage.
In 1938, Reinhold wrote to his family in Palestine trying to arrange for papers to join them. But it was too late. Papers did not come through in time.
Just before the outbreak of the war, Reinhold, Judit and Josse managed to reach Belgium. Bewildered, terrified but alive, they settled there and Josse even went to school for a short time. But soon the Nazis began their march across Europe. In Brussels, the family was tipped off about the imminent round up of Jews. Living by their wits, they crossed the border into France. But fate caught up with them again. The family were arrested by the Nazis and detained in Gurs internment camp in southern France. From here it was still possible to emigrate and some inmates were able to organise papers. Reinhold was now desperate to find a way out and tried making contact with people who could help him. In 1941, he wrote a heart-breaking letter to a contact in Turkey, asking for help in getting papers. It was probably his last attempt and it did not yield any results.
In March 1941, the family were transferred to transit camps. Reinhold was detained at Camp des Milles near Marseilles, while Judit and Josse were detained in the Centre Bompard in the same area. Camp des Milles and Bompard were transit camps and Jews were detained there. While at the Centre Bompard, Judit managed to make contact with the French resistance. Despairing of her fate, and that of her family, she tried to make plans for escape.
In 1942, the German army invaded southern France and the situation worsened. The Jews in the transit camps were now in mortal danger. Judit knew that the end was near and was desperate to get her child to safety.
After the occupation of southern France and beginning of the deportations via Drancy, desperate efforts were made to save children. With the help of the Jewish organisation Oeuvre de Secours aux Enfants, Judit was able to arrange for her son to be taken in by a rural Catholic family.
In August 1942, Judit and Josse were placed on a train from Camp des Milles to Drancy near Paris. As the death train passed through the small farming village of Le Haut-Biol overlooking the road to Lyon, Josse was secretly taken off the train, together with another boy called Simon Haas.
Josse told me personally of his mother’s last words to him. Words etched in his memory forever: “Be brave. Be good. Don’t cry. Play with the other boy.” He was seven years old.
Judit arrived at Drancy, where she was reunited brief ly with Reinhold. On 14 August1942, both were sent from Drancy on the nineteenth transport to Auschwitz and were murdered immediately on arrival.
I return to Josse. The name of the family who had agreed to take the boys was Argoud. They lived on farm outside a small village. The parents, Joseph and Emilliene had three children of their own, two boys and a girl. Josse and Simon became the two additional brothers. They lived with the Argoud family for two years. During that time the entire village knew that they were there. Nazi soldiers made searches, and warnings were posted throughout French villages stating the harbouring Jews was punishable by death.
Yet the code of silence was never broken.
Certain shacks in the pastures were their place of hiding. At a moment’s notice from the Argouds, whenever a German patrol passed by, Josse and Simon would be ready to hide themselves.
When the village was liberated by the Allies, Josse was sent to an orphanage in central France. One of the social workers, Rachel Altman, took him to her family in Strasbourg, where he stayed until 1946.
Josse’s name was included in a list of children waiting to be reunited with their families. The list was seen by Judith’s parents, Eugene and Faiga Gerson in Tel Aviv, and arrangements were made for him to move to Israel.
Josse grew up in Tel Aviv with his mother’s family. He became an electrician and married Ruth Minikes, also of German-Jewish descent. They had four children. As the children grew up Josse would relate his story to them. He never forgot the simple farming family to whom he had owed his life. As time went by he decided to try to find them and to show them his gratitude.
In 1981 Josse and Ruth, accompanied by their youngest son Oren, travelled to France. They made their way overland to Le Haut-Biol. They arrived at the farm stopping at the white picket fence twenty meters from the house. Josse slowly stepped from the car, grasping Oren’s hand tightly. Joseph Argoud, now an elderly man, leaned forward from his porch bench to see who it was. Josse called to him in French: “Do you remember a boy?” A moment of silent recognition passed. The tears and excitement came to the old man’s eyes. “Josse C’est Tu?”- “Oui, c’est Moi PAPA”.
The adopted Jewish child was reunited with his Catholic family, as an ecstatic Joseph called his wife. She, too, was overcome with emotion.
Josse’s youngest son Oren remained silent and pensive while his eyes wandered about his father’s pastoral refuge. His response to the family was, “I owe my life to you. Had you not sheltered my father he would not be here and of course I would not be here.”
Chocolates were served as there was much catching up since so much time had passed. On his return to Israel, Josse was determined that the family should be formally recognised. A lengthy process began as he applied to Yad Vashem to accord the family recognition for what they had done.
Josse tried to expedite the process in view of the Argouds’ advancing age. Finally, the research complete, the family – and the entire village of Le Haut-Biol – were formally included on the list of Righteous among the Nations – Gentile people who saved Jews during the Holocaust. By then, the Argoud family were too old to travel to Israel for the ceremony and so it was agreed that the event would be held in the village.
The Israeli Ambassador to France accompanied Josse and his family and agreed to host an event to honour the Argoud family and the village as a whole. When Josse and his family arrived, flanked by the consular entourage and a host of journalists, the villagers expressed their surprise. “We don’t know what all the fuss is about.” They said, “Two children’s lives were at stake. Of course we had to protect them”.
I quote from Proverbs 24. 11:
Rescue those who are being taken away to death;
Hold back those who are stumbling to the slaughter.
If you say, “Behold, we did not know this”Will not the One who weighs your heart perceive it?
And so my friends, I will say it again: “Ich bin Deutsche”. I am the daughter of Judit’s brother Leonard.
My aunt Judit and her husband Reinhold were murdered in Auschwitz. My cousin Josse survived. My father managed to reach the southern shore of Africa. Had he hesitated to leave his homeland, Germany, my brother Errol and I would never have been born.
I was born in 1940, when Judit and her family were already trapped in Europe. I was named Marlene Gerson. Marlene, a name with German roots. Gerson, the name of a Jewish family from Gumbinnen.
All my life my father spoke with a German accent. He never spoke much about Germany. He never taught us a word of his language. But he yearned for the life he had lost. After he and my mother were divorced, he married a German woman in South Africa. In some ways, he never stopped feeling like a ref ugee.
So where does Judit’s story leave us on this International Holocaust Remembrance Day?
In the years following her death, Hitler and his allies were defeated. Later, the Soviet regimes fell. The Berlin Wall fell, apartheid was defeated in South Africa.
The world made real progress.
But recently, the world has begun to change again. Once more we feel the cold, ominous wind of racism and ultra-nationalism. Once again we hear talk of walls being built between countries. Once again it is fashionable to believe that some human beings are superior to others. To believe that it is acceptable to humiliate, insult and isolate people on their basis of the religion, or their origins.
This is what makes International Holocaust Remembrance Day so important. On this day we remember the slaughter of the Jews of Europe and those associated with them. As we remember them, we try to draw lessons for our world today.
It is a difficult day for us all. It demands deep reserves of emotional energy and integrity.
It is a day for intense reflection. It is a day that asks us to commune with the dead – to imagine for a moment their suffering, their desperation, their misery, their terror. To put ourselves in the shoes of people who committed no crime, but who were in the grip of a monster, unable to protect themselves, unable to defend their children.
It is a day to remember the survivors. I especially recognise the survivors present with us today. I offer deep respect for their resilience, their strength – to honour their capacity for healing in the face of immense trauma. In the face of a world that was often indifferent to their inordinate suffering.
It is a day to remember those who resisted, those who opposed, and those who stood up against evil, to listen to the voice of their own conscience, even in the face of death. It is also a day to talk about the perpetrators and those who supported them. To remember that Hitler was voted into power. To remember that so many ordinary Europeans gave their active or tacit support to the politics of hatred, the politics of cruelty, and the politics of fear. It is a day to pause. To ask ourselves as individuals what each of us can do to help someone who is vulnerable. To ask ourselves as citizens, what kind of world we are trying to build.
What stories will be told of us by our children?
Will they tell the story of people like the Argoud family and so many others? Ordinary people committed to their values, knowing that they lived under the gaze of the Almighty?
It is, without doubt, a day to honour those who risked their lives to save others. As of January 2016, a total of 25 271 people have been recognised by Yad Vashem as “Righteous among the Nations.” Each one receives a medal inscribed with the words of the Talmud: Sanhedrin 4.5: “Whoever destroys a soul, it is considered as if he destroyed an entire world; and
whoever saves a life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world”.
Just as we cannot and will not forget the Holocaust, we must never forget those courageous individuals whose humanity transcended it. By trying to understand some of the attributes that distinguished rescuers from the onlookers and perpetrators, perhaps we can deliberately cultivate those attributes for the world of the future.
Let me speak for a moment to the refugees and their families, as the daughter of a refugee. When my father and some of his sisters arrived in South Africa they were not universally welcomed. Those who were intent on oppressing black people in South Africa also hated Jews. They were indeed Nazi sympathisers.
All Jewish South Africans descend from refugees. They mostly arrived penniless and scared, with little knowledge of local culture or language. They were generally not well educated but they knew that their future depended on hard work and creativity. In the end the Jewish community in South Africa made a massive contribution to our country, in the professions, in the economy and also in the anti-apartheid struggle. And Jewish life in South Africa has thrived, with many synagogues, institutions and places of study.
Given the right environment and the right approach, refugee communities can thrive. Refugees who do best are those who hold on to their roots but integrate into their new environment … encourage their children to honour the traditions of their community as much as the traditions of their new country.
Let me end with a word to all the German people who are accepting refugees into their midst. This a difficult process, challenging, and not without risk. But we have learnt from the Holocaust that there is only one world and only one human race. When you look to the refugees arriving in Germany now, think about their children. And think about the Argoud family and the boy they saved. In saving one life, they saved an entire world. Josse never ever recovered from the deep trauma of the Shoah. One indication of this is the speech impediment he developed on the farm, which lasted most of his life. Judit and Reinhold, who both perished in Auschwitz, have three grandchildren (sadly one passed recently), 11 great grandchildren and three of the next generation, alive and well thanks to the Argoud family.
I am privileged and delighted that Josse’s son, Dr Oren Gutfeld, and daughter Tamar Gutfeld are present here today, along with my daughters Professor Louise Bethlehem and Lael Bethlehem.
La’dor va’dor
That Oren is present is an astonishing testament to hope and recovery and that the light of a people can never be blown out. Dimmed perhaps but never extinguished.
I conclude by dedicating this story of courage and hope to my dear Aunt Judit Gutfeld, saying “Nie wieder” – never again.
Marlene Bethlehem, a long-serving member of the editorial board of Jewish Affairs, has held numerous senior leadership positions in South African Jewish communal life, including as National Chairman of the SA Jewish Board of Deputies, and also served as Deputy Chairperson of the Cultural Religious and Linguistic Commission. She is currently President of the Memorial Foundation for Jewish Culture, in which capacity she delivered the keynote address at the International Holocaust Remembrance Day gathering in Hanover, Germany, on 27 January 2017 and from which this article has been adapted.
