These candles represent my 2 grandparents from my father’s side, Leendert and Maryan Groen, my mother’s father Marcel Rodrigues, my uncle Bram Rodrigues, and the 5th candle represents all of the 6 million Jews killed by the Nazis. May there memories be blessed and may we draw goodness and strength in remembering them always.
NEVER AGAIN!
Sometimes as a writer you have to look for a topic to write about, while other times the topic is put in front of you on a silver platter. As the son of Holocaust survivors, more specifically Holocaust survivors from Holland, with the existing quarantine we live in and the continuing conversations about Anne Frank that some seem to think is relevant to our current state of affairs, I have been presented with that aforementioned silver platter.
It’s been somewhat fascinating to me and even more alarming that there are people out there who feel being quarantined in the comfort of their own home, with food to eat, entertainment available, the freedom to leave their house without fear of being killed by a ruling force is comparable to what Anne Frank experienced. Those among us who are most likely to commemorate Holocaust Remembrance Day are sufficiently educated to the point where we understand how wrong that thought process is. For me, this whole discussion takes me back to last July when I spent 6 days in Amsterdam and had the ceremony where we retrieved the violin that belonged to my uncle who was murdered in Auschwitz. BRAM’S VIOLIN
I have a confession to make. In all my trips to Holland, including last summer, I have never visited the Anne Frank house. This is not because I do not recognize its importance, nor is it not because I do not recognize the tragedy of her life, but more because, having been raised by a mother who was in essence, as she put it herself, the Anne Frank that lived, it was not as important for me to go there as it is for others. However, while there last summer it was somewhat prevalent in my thoughts, because while taking in much of what Amsterdam has to offer, and looking at what people called the tourist attractions, Anne Frank’s house was often mentioned. While I recognize the importance it has to society, there too lies the problem. For so many all it really is is a tourist attraction.
It may be very powerful and accurate in its presentation. Having never been there it would be inappropriate for me to say otherwise. For me the issue is not in what Anne Frank’s house is designed to be, it is more about how people choose to look at it. And it so clearly is relevant in the discussion that has recently emerged when using it as a frame of reference. In fairness, if people use it as a comparison without mocking or purposely minimizing Anne Frank’s plight, they are guilty of only one thing. Ignorance. And to be even more direct, if so many are ignorant, they are not the guilty ones, we are. Decent people who understand things incorrectly are people willing to listen and learn. People who are sad, depressed and scared over our current state of affairs should not be criticized or ridiculed for their feelings, but if they incorrectly compare themselves to a 13 year old girl who could never leave the house in fear of being killed by Nazi soldiers, was stuck in small quarters with her family with minimal amounts of food, and ultimately died of disease in a concentration camp designed to ultimately kill Jews, it is our sacred responsibility to educate them.
Much of our cry of “Never Again” has appropriately been directed at those who are evil and would be prone to once again partake in the mass murder of Jews and other groups different from them. But if this quarantine we are in and the reaction of a segment of the population has taught us anything, “Never Again” also means we must educate and, to use some very relevant words in today’s world, “mitigate the disease” known as ignorance.
May the memories of the 6 million be blessed and let us never forget.
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My Uncle Bram Rodrugues, killed at the age of 18 in Auschwitz in 1943
As we continue to combine the story of a horrific time with a story that inspires on the highest level, it becomes more and more of an honor to be an avenue from whence this story is told.
On Sunday February 16, 2020, the violin that belonged to my Uncle Bram, a victim of the Holocaust, was played for the second time. This time in Williamsburg, Virginia. As the story gets more traction and the violin is shown and played for more people, the importance of what we are doing becomes more and more evident. By inspiring people with music played from the violin, and telling the story of how the violin made it back to me and my family, we are doing our part in restoring people’s faith in humanity.
Williamsburg is a wonderful town. In the few days I was there I was exposed to wonderful people who extended their hospitality, generosity and kindness. The genuine interest in this story made everything about the trip worthwhile, even before the concert showcasing the violin ever took place. Yes anti-Semitism is on the rise and yes Holocaust denial is a very real problem, but for a few days in a small yet significant town in Virginia, my belief that we are closer to a good world than many might usually believe significantly increased.
As I spoke to the crowd, a crowd likely reaching close to 200 people, moments before the violin was played in a solo by the brilliant Ken Sarch, I saw the expressions on the people’s faces. The people in the crowd, of which only a small percentage were Jewish, were not only engaged and interested, they were moved, saddened and inspired. At times many would nod their heads in agreement to the points I would make about the importance of not only this specific story, but the importance of telling the world what took place in Europe between 1933 and 1945.
After the event one man told me how his father was German and was 16 when the war ended, and how he was ashamed of his German background, almost in tears when telling me. One man who purchased the book asked me to not make out the inscription to any one individual but to make it out to all the good people of the world. I saw people in tears when I told the story, knowing that in some way they were understanding the devastation that took place in a way they had never been able to do prior to this day.
For me the most powerful moment of the day came following my presentation of the story when Ken took out the violin and played the music from Schindler’s list. At the time he was doing this I looked out into the crowd to see how the people were reacting. Throughout the crowd I saw intense emotion, tears and expressions of awe and inspiration, and as I saw this I not only thought of my uncle, I thought of my mother. I often say that when my mother talked of the war she was always sad. When she spoke of her brother she always cried. His death represented the horrors of the time, and as her son who loved her as all of her children did and still do, I feel an enormous responsibility in getting this right. What I saw in Williamsburg is that by just telling the story with honesty and passion, and having Bram’s violin played, the good people out there assure that this is being done right, for they not only observe it, they feel it as well.
I thank the people of Williamsburg for making this more than just a concert. In their genuine and powerful collective show of emotion they showed me one more example of the goodness in humanity, and they showed me why more and more people need to get the same opportunity to be witness to something so powerful and important.
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In the 7 years since I started the website Holland’s Heroes this will be the first time I have chosen to use the name of the website as a title for a post. Why now? It’s because in light of recent events it has become clear to me that I am in a family that has had the benefit of the actions of some remarkable and righteous Dutch people. People who clearly are Holland’s Heroes.
Although time and the world’s natural order of things has caused the number of Holocaust survivors to steadily diminish, in many cases, even if the survivors are no longer here, there are still the families remaining of these survivors. Many of these families only exist today because of the righteous and heroic actions of people that endangered themselves and the lives of their families in order to save those they descended from. It’s been my experience that anyone who knows of a hero or family that did something to help save the life, offer support or preserve the memory of someone in their family feels tremendously blessed and grateful that these heroes were there for their ancestors in the worst of times. So imagine how blessed I feel to be able to tell you of 3 families that had such an impact on my family.
Ranking the actions of great people is something that would potentially diminish how special their actions were, so I’ve determined that the most fair order in which to mention these people is in the order in which I learned of them in my lifetime.
Lubertus & Geeske te Kiefte
Since the time I began telling the story of my parents’ survival of the Holocaust I’ve also been telling the story of the te Kieftes. That’s also because since the time I was old enough to know anything about my family I knew about the people we lovingly refer to as Oom Bertus and Tante Geesje. In Nazi-occupied Holland, going from contact to contact established through the resistance, my father would ultimately help my mother find the place she would spend the last 16 months of the war. Here she would be treated like a member of the family while more importantly she would be protected from the Nazis. Oom Bertus, a builder, would build her a special secret room under his workplace where she would sleep, hidden from Nazi soldiers in the event of a surprise raid. Other than one man, the entire town of Lemerlerveld would be on board with the te Kieftes in making sure this young, very Jewish looking woman would remain safe. The one man in question would have it made very clear by Bertus and other active members of the resistance what would happen to him should something happen to their Jewish guest. Post war the relationship between our families has been like family, and I can say without pause that even without the actions of Bertus and Geeske this family is as special a group of people as any I have ever known.
Jan Van den Berg
The best friend of my grandfather Marcel Rodrigues, Jan Van den Berg had more opportunities to prove this friendship than most would ever expect. The depth of his friendship went beyond his relationship with my grandfather, as he would be there for his friend’s daughter, my mother Sipora, any time it was needed. As my mother was preparing to escape Amsterdam with my father, an escape as dangerous as any one could ever imagine, their one and only welcomed stop was in the Van den Berg home. This was because this was the last true safe place they could rest and get some nourishment before their trip. As time would bare out, Oom Jan as we knew him, would not only never say no to his best friend’s daughter, he would go above and beyond in ways one should never forget. When the war ended and Sipora would return to Amsterdam, had it not been for the emotional and practical assistance of the Van den Berg’s, she might not have survived the post-war travails. Returning to Amsterdam pregnant where she would later give birth to her oldest son Marcel, Sipora would take ill only months into her young child’s life. Suspected of contracting Tuberculosis, later to be confirmed as Pleurisy, Sipora would be put into quarantine. Unable to care for her child, Oom Jan and Tante Toos would care for Marcel while Sipora was in quarantine. He would be cared for as one of their own. My brother Marcel and sister-in-law Bernice would name their oldest daughter Jennifer, the “J” being in honor of Oom Jan. On July 21st of this year I had the great pleasure and honor of meeting their great grandson Jelmer and his family on my trip to Holland.
Johnny de Haan
Besides being something incredibly special for my family, recent events are also a lesson for anyone whose family survived the Holocaust. Not everyone and not everything has been revealed or discovered. We tend to think that all the stories have been told and that there is very little new and important information we can share with the world. Besides being factually inaccurate, in today’s global climate it has become even more important to continue to share these important stories. Naturally I tell this story with personal bias, but I can also tell you that in sharing it with people of all ages and all walks of life, I have found that the one word most often used when responding to the story, is “Wow”.
With the Nazis occupying and controlling Amsterdam, in the summer of 1943 my grandfather Marcel Rodrigues and my uncle Bram Rodrigues chose to make an attempt to escape to Switzerland. Before they left Bram went to his close friend and band mate Johnny de Haan to ask him to look after his violin till he returned home. As was the case with 6 million European Jews, my Oom Bram never returned. However, Johnny de Haan safeguarded the violin till his death 7 years ago. When he passed away his son Wim, understanding the importance the violin always had to his father, continued what his father had started. Until a recent examination of his father’s diary and subsequently finding more information online because of the book Jew Face, Wim, who till now thought Bram left no living relatives, would find me. Upon making this discovery he contact me and we would set up the July 21st event in which he gave the violin to me and my siblings. The rest as they say, is history.
But is’t not JUST history. It’s present day as well. Wim gave value to the violin, a desire to return it to the family of his father’s friend, and a warmth and friendship that has drawn a connection to the friendship taken away from 2 young men 76 years ago. Wim’s mother, an unsung hero in this story, and someone I had the honor to meet, would dust off the violin on a regular basis. All of this is why I say this is more than the actions of one good man. It is a family that helped keep the memory alive and is directly responsible for creating the legacy for one of the 6 million murdered souls of the Holocaust. That soul belongs to my uncle, Bram Rodrigues.
We live in a day and age where negativity sells, so if the positive nature of this post doesn’t appeal to you that is you personal choice. But I urge you all to realize that in telling these stories we not only help keep the story alive, but maybe we bring more stories such as these to the surface. We must not only never forget, but we must always continue to remind the rest of the world.
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I offer you the following excerpt from my book together with a picture that illustrates one more incredibly moving facet of this remarkable story.
It was 4:30 the morning of May 10, 1940, and being that it was springtime, the first signs of daylight had begun. Sipora was suddenly awakened by the sound of airplanes flying overhead. A young woman of only eighteen, she was clueless to what this really meant, and all she felt was curiosity and confusion.
Like so many Dutchmen who were aware of what was happening in other parts of Europe, Marcel Rodrigues had a good idea of the intentions of the Nazi war machine.
“They want to throw us all in the Zuider Zee (South Sea)”, he said, a statement that was not literally accurate, but was sadly prophetic in substance.
So that morning when the planes were flying overhead, on a night when Sipora heard sounds she had never heard before, she asked her father what was going on. He was to answer her in a very distinct, yet uncharacteristically cold way, and very accurately said to his daughter Sipora, “It’s war.”
After my brother Marcel established contact and subsequently a friendship with the current residents of my mother and Bram’s old home a number of years back, he was able to put my mother in touch with the woman who currently lives there with her husband and beautiful children, and through the magic of FaceTime my mother was able to confirm which room was actually hers. On Sunday July 21, 2019, thanks to the kindness and hospitality of Jantien and her family, I was able to stand in the very room where my mother had this exact conversation with her father on May 10, 1940.
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Sipora Katarina Rodrigues-Lopes Groen is the last installment in 5 Passages to Bram and is about Bram’s older sister who in many ways has grown larger in stature since her passing. Part of that is due to her children who have taken solace and joy in telling her story, while part may be something far less easy to explain and significantly more spiritual.
Born on January 1, 1922, Sipora, my mother, had what might be looked at as a few different lives. Part of that story can be told in looking at her name. Although never a large percentage of the Jewish population in Holland, the Sephardic community was a very strong and a significant part of Judaism in Holland since the influx of Spanish-Portuguese Jews. In fact to this day, when speaking about Dutch Jewry, many of the worlds Jews speak of the “Esnoga”, The beautiful Portuguese Synagogue in Amsterdam.
With all the names I mentioned to start this piece, the simplicity with which my mother felt comfortable living her life can almost be seen by the fact that in her early years she was Sipora Rodrigues, and her later years she was Sipora Groen. But to clarify, simplicity is often a sign of depth that reflects the character of a person focused on things far more important than what people call you. This was the case with my mother.
I make no apologies for the bias in this piece, partially because of the words I have heard spoken about my mother during and after her life on earth. She was the oldest of 2 children, her brother Bram born when she was approaching 3 years of age. She was very close to Bram, a closeness that only got stronger when they lost their mother when Sipora was 13 and Bram was 10. Despite the pain of being without a mother at such an early age, this very powerful loss was a pivotal event in her life, shattering her innocence early and helping her to acquire a strength that saw her through the rest of her life, a life that saw loss and devastation most of us could not fathom.
Engaged to Hans de Jong before the war, she would survive the war losing her fiance, her father, her brother and countless friends and relatives to the murderous Nazi war machine. She would however come out with what in many ways was a new and redefined family. The te Kieftes who hid her for 16 months would be like family for the rest of their lives, as would their descendants for the rest of hers, and the man who would take it on himself to see to her safety, Nardus Groen, my father, would become her husband for over 6 decades till his passing in 2012.
Besides being a loyal wife and nurturing mother, Sipora was also a person of deep character and kindness. She would care for people living through their last days and give a caring ear for people who needed someone to listen to them and share a lifetime worth of experience. She would redefine herself after Nardus died in a way most people would never have been able to, finding new ways to enjoy life, sharing her story with audiences in schools, synagogues and even prisons. But what may very well have made her more special than anything else was the pure joy she had in being alive, a joy she shared with others in an inspirational manner.
My brother Marcel who has met presidents and movie stars referred to our mother as a rock star. She truly was a wonderful person to be around and had a character as strong and kind as anyone you will ever meet. Since her passing on April 19th, 2017 it has remained important for me to honor her memory and legacy. She is number 5 in this series because, well, for those of you who don’t yet know, you will certainly know next week, when I tell you the story of how I have been blessed to honor her memory and the memory of her lost brother in a way I could have never imagined.
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As a child growing up I knew different things about the families of both my mother and father. Over the next 4 weeks as I write these brief posts in the series “5 Passages to Bram”, my intention is to keep it more personal than specific. When it comes to my mother’s parents, Marcel and Deborah Rodrigues-Lopes, most of what I have to offer is personal.
My mother would always speak warmly and affectionately about the mother she lost when she was a child of only 13. She spoke of her mother Deborah as being a soft and gentle woman, loving and kind. That softness was passed on to both her children, but in many ways even more so to her son Bram, and the gentle kindness was passed on more to her daughter, my mother Sipora. Although there is an undisputed sadness in her life being cut so short due to an illness very treatable in today’s world, some might say she was fortunate not to have to witness what would take place in Holland only 5 years after her death. Her husband Marcel was very much in love with her, and my mother would often say that after her passing he was a different man. A fact that would be easy to understand given the fact that she was taken from them at the young age of 35. Her passing left a 13 year old Sipora with greater responsibilities than most see at that age, including a significant impact on the everyday life of her little brother Bram, a young boy of only 10.
Marcel Rodrigues was one of those men with a lot going for him. He was youthful, athletic, handsome and accomplished in business. I never once heard my mother challenge whether or not he loved his children, but it was clear that he was never the same after his wife Deborah passed away. Even with that he was a man that by his very nature wanted to make the most of life, a quality I believe he passed on to his daughter Sipora. An avid soccer player and traveller, he loved his children dearly, looking for ways to protect them when things were at their worst. Willing to face the bitter reality, he wanted to do whatever necessary to get them to safety after the Nazi onslaught. Sipora chose to stay in Amsterdam at the hospital where she worked and had the help and support of her relatively new friend and later to be husband and my father Nardus, while Bram would go with his father in an attempt to escape Holland through Belgium, only to picked up at the border and taken to their death in Auschwitz.
My mother honored her parents throughout her life. May their memory be blessed.
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A correction has been made to the previous post in which I referred to my paternal grandmother as Marjan. Frankly, I know I did not make up the spelling of Marjan, subsequently knowing I did get it from somewhere and or someone connected to her history, but in looking up the Yad Vashem archives she is referred to as Marianne. I have made the correction in the post and thank my cousin Bettie for bringing it to my attention.
The following was written by my brother, Marcel Groen. Marcel is the Chairman of the Democratic Party in Pennsylvania. He is a son, a husband, a brother, a father, a grandfather, and friend and colleague of many. In this short but poignant piece however, he represents himself, the son of Holocaust survivors, more than anything else, as an American. It is my honor and pleasure to share my brother’s words.
In the winter of 1942 Marcel Rodrigues went to the embassy in the Hague, the Netherlands, to apply for a visa for himself and his son, Bram. He applied for the visa because he felt that America was the only country in the world that could provide him with hope, safety and freedom.
He was right. His visa was denied, He chose not to try to come here as an illegal immigrant. Oh do I wish he had. Marcel and his son were murdered in Auschwitz on August 13, 1943, ten months later.
If only he had tried to get here as an illegal immigrant-he might not have succeeded, but if he had been successful he would’ve lived. There was no one else or place to go.
Marcel was my grandfather and Bram my uncle.
Americans should never forget why people come here, sometimes legally, sometimes not, but millions have come. They came because America represented opportunity, safety and goodness, in a world that was neither good nor safe. We represent that wonderful experiment called democracy, where we make room for all and provide safety and opportunity for all who come here. Without those immigrants we would be nothing.
We are not perfect as a society. We have a long way to go, but we can and must continue to work towards those lofty goals we believe in.
When we crush those dreams; when we close our borders to those in need; when we forget where we came from and where we want to go; then we will lose our place in the world, than our experiment will have failed. We cannot let that happen. As a people we are too good for that.
There are times when good people must stand up regardless of the consequences. JFK’s Profile in Courage comes to mind.
This is one of those times.
Marcel Groen
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Holland's Heroes 