Taking Up Your Cross

Love is the key to freedom.

When people first learn that my mother survived the Holocaust, they frequently ask me if she was Jewish.[1] It’s understandable. The Nazi Final Solution targeted Jews. Six million of them died in the camps.

It comes as a surprise to them when I explain that my mother was a fifteen-year-old Roman Catholic school girl. She is one of the thousands of the non-Jews who were sentenced to one of those dreadful camps. The Nazis killed up to half a million of them in addition to their Jewish victims.[2]

An article I read recently suggested that the children of Holocaust survivors know what it’s like to suffer from secondhand smoke.[3] We are affected in various ways by our parents’ experience. I’ll explain how my life has been shaped by the Nazi genocide in a moment. But first, I’ll tell you what I know about why my mother was arrested and imprisoned.

Mom never told me why the Gestapo showed up. In fact, she never wanted to dwell on her experience in the camp. So, it was only after she had died …