“Maybe you can explain it to me. How could the people of a civilized nation like Germany become such murderers? How could Hitler have been so cruel?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? Aren’t you studying psychology in college?”
“I am.”
So how could you not know? If you don’t know, who will? You’re studying psychology.”
I was a sophomore in college. My mind scanned the psychology courses I had already taken: Introduction to Psychology, Child Psychology, and the Psychology of Adolescence. As far as I could recall I had not yet come across a satisfying answer to his questions. I did not like these discussions. I felt uncomfortable and inadequate; it was distressing for me to talk about the Holocaust with my father.
It was Saturday morning, about 8:45. My father and I were on our way to synagogue. Walking. We were Orthodox Jews, which meant we did not use a car on the Sabbath. My father insisted on being on time. Actually, he wanted to be early for services. I was a good boy. Nineteen years old, but a good boy. I took it upon myself to make sure I was ready when he left so that I could go with him. It was a rather long walk, almost a mile. So we walked together in the heat of summer and the cold of winter; however, I was not particularly fond of long discussions early in the morning – certainly not about the Holocaust.
My father was a survivor. He had gone through the concentration camps. He suffered indignities few of us can even imagine. Through the years he had shared some of the details of some of his experiences with me. It was painful hearing how he suffered and how his family was murdered. Only one brother and he survived from a large family. Parents, brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, in-laws, uncles, and aunts all gone, with not even a grave to mark that they had ever lived. I did not blame him for broaching this topic as often as he did, but I did not feel like trying to answer his difficult questions.
A sewing machine mechanic, my father made a very decent salary, was well known and respected in his field, and always worked hard to provide for his family – my mother, my younger brother, and me.
“Worked hard” is an understatement. I cannot remember my father taking even one day off for sickness or inclement weather. His commute from Newark, New Jersey, to Manhattan involved a bus, a subway, and a significant walk. He left the house at 7 a.m. and often did not return home until 7 p.m.
Having grown up in poverty in Eastern Europe, he wanted us to be comfortable and have everything we needed. Furthermore, it was important to him that we remain observant Jews. Consequently, he and my mother denied themselves luxuries so that my brother and I could attend yeshiva day school and high school.
“I did not have the opportunity for college. I am glad that you are going. You will be able to make a good living. I wish I had gone to college; I would be earning so much more money.”
It was 1969. I was a child of the ’60s and the idea of money being a key to happiness was almost anathema to my generation.
“You know, money is not the most important thing in life.”
“Oh no? If you’re short a nickel, do you think they’ll let you on the subway?”
Our conversation was right on schedule. So typical of those we had on the way to shul. Next up was the war in Vietnam, politics, the difference in the quality of the music of his generation compared to the music of mine, and, finally, long hair. I did not mind defending the views of my generation, but I just listened whenever he spoke about the misery of the concentration camps and opportunities he had missed in life. In these instances I was so relieved when we finally got to the synagogue.