Debate: Formal sitting – International Holocaust Remembrance Day
Date: THURSDAY, 25 JANUARY 2024
Speaker: Irene Shashar
Language: EN

The year is 1942. I am five years old. My mother, father and I are living in the Warsaw Ghetto. We are starving. In my innocence, I hoped that it was all temporary. I wanted to believe that someone would say ‘abracadabra’ and I would be back in my own rightful home, comfortable and secure, surrounded by my family’s love. But that was only a child’s dream. Moving to the ghetto was only the beginning of our nightmare. The seeds of genocide had already been planted in 1939 with the poison of Nazism invading Poland. When we were forcibly moved into the ghetto, survival was the only thing that mattered.  The conditions in the ghetto were awful. I was cold, I was barefoot, I was hungry. I was afraid to look into the eyes of a stranger.  My mother and I often went to scavenge for food while my father would stay in our tiny apartment. On one of these outings, as my mother was holding me tight, I noticed a dirty, raw potato that had fallen off a food cart. I picked it up, I gave it to my mother; she cleaned it with her skirt, she broke it in half for me to eat. I ate it with delight. I still remember its taste. It was delicious. The second half of the potato, I expected my mother to eat herself, since she was just as hungry as I was. But she waited. She waited until I finished savouring the first half and gave me the second half. I’m telling you this to show you that a mother’s love is unconditional.  On another afternoon, while my mother and I were again searching the streets for spare bits of food, we heard bloodcurdling screams coming in the direction of our cramped ‘apartment’. My mother yanked my little arm and took off running in the direction of the screams. She dashed up the stairs of our building, fighting her way through a crowd of people, and once we were there on the landing, the crowd was even thicker. But through the open door we could see a body – a body sprawled on the kitchen floor. It was my father, in his ratty dress shirt and his  Mother dragged me with her. She threw herself and me on top of his limp body and screamed, sobbing inconsolably. I was scared. She kept an iron grip on me as we huddled together as a family for one last time. My elbow had nowhere to go except into a pool of my father’s blood. We stayed there for what felt like an eternity. Finally, somebody pulled me away and took me out of the room. I remember then feeling relieved, but that would be the last time I ever saw my father.  Shortly after that horrific day, mother and I set out to find some food. Only on this day, something felt different. She was carrying a large black bag and she let me take my doll, my beloved Laleczka. She seemed to be going somewhere with a purpose, with urgency, with a plan. Suddenly she pulled open a sewer cover and tossed me down the sewer. It was dark, it was dirty, it was wet, it was awful. And all I could see, all I could feel, was the stream of smelly water splashing against me. I clutched my beloved Laleczka and waited for my mother to join me. My eyes slowly but surely adjusted to the darkness, and I saw the grimy tunnel all around me. And the rats – there were lots, lots, lots, lots of rats. They were jumping. They were jumping on my head, on my face. They were in my hair and they were jumping on my poor Laleczka.  My mother pushed me from behind to move us through the foul gutter. Not only was it soggy, but there was a tremendous stench. We were crossing the sewer for the entire ghetto area of Warsaw. 80 years later, I can remember the stench like it was yesterday. I clutched my travel companion, my beloved Laleczka, close to my chest. I told her to be strong, but neither she nor I were immune to the horrific conditions in the sewer. She was more than my precious doll, she was my best friend, and even she was not safe in this hell on earth.  Then, as quickly and forcefully as it had begun, the pushing from behind suddenly stopped. My mother scrambled upward. Somehow, she found a grate. She hoisted me up and then came out of the sewer herself. To this day, I still wonder, how did she know how far we had to go in order to emerge outside of the ghetto walls?  We were now on the Arian side of Warsaw, where Jews were absolutely forbidden to be. My mother, a pretty woman, was blonde and blue-eyed, and could pass as a non-Jew. She had friends from earlier years who were willing to employ her in their homes, even though this was dangerous for them. Now, in this situation, she could provide food for herself and for me. However, taking me along required that I be hidden in closets.  From that moment on, I became what is known as a ‘Holocaust hidden child’. I was given a potty for my Laleczka and for myself, and my mother came by every once in a while with food and a kiss, and to tell me how much she loved me. I spent hours and hours in dark closets talking to my Laleczka. We comforted each other. We hugged each other. She was my hiding place companion. I asked her over and over again, what did I do wrong? Why am I being punished? I felt guilty, guilty of something, but of what I did not know.  My mother told me that if I behaved, if I would not call her, if I would not complain, if I would not make any noise, all this would soon be over and then we could go out to the park to play again.  Ladies and gentlemen, consider for a moment: what my mother was telling me was that the end of the war depended on my being good. Could I really be responsible for ending the war?  After several years of hiding and running, running to new places to stay one step ahead of the Gestapo, the war was finally over – I must have been very, very, very good! We searched for surviving relatives and eventually we made our way to Paris. My mother found a job in a hotel, but there was no place for me there. So she sent me to an orphanage, Le Manoir de Denouval, in Andrésy, established by the Commission Centrale de l’Énfance created by the Union des Juifs pour la Résistance et l’Entraide. All the children in there were French orphans whose parents had been deported to death camps. I was the only Polish child. I was also the only child with the mother, so she became everybody’s mother. At the Manoir, I learned for the first time to read and write. I was then nine years old. Thank you, France, for having provided me with a refuge at a crucial time in my life.  There were so many questions I wanted to ask my mother, who was my saviour, and who gave me life over and over again. She died in the spring of 1948, before I was able to ask, and I then became a full orphan.  Prior though, to her sudden heart attack, she had one last plan. She made arrangements, for her and for me, to live with her favourite niece, whose family had found a new life in Lima, Peru. Fela Topilsky and her husband Michal had the generosity to take me in, gave me love and allowed me to start a new life in the safety of their home, together with their children, Marcel and Sonia. I am forever thankful and grateful for their love and generosity. They helped make me the person that I am today, and I tried to show that I deserved their caring by being, of course, the best student, the best I could be. Later, I earned a scholarship to university in the United States.  Peru provided me with an environment in which I could evolve from a hidden refugee child to an adolescent with hopes and dreams for the future. Thank you, Peru. My mother’s foresight, even after she was no longer with me, is a beacon of light that has stayed with me throughout my life. I went to New York to study and, eventually, from there, made aliah to Israel.  Israel became my country. I had the privilege to contribute to the education of generations of students at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem during the 40 years I taught applied linguistics there.  I was blessed with the opportunity to have children and grandchildren, and I did the very thing Hitler tried so hard to prevent.  But Hitler did not win. Allow me to present to you my victory: my son, David, and my daughter, Illana. Would the two of you please stand up?  My son, David, is a doctor. In 2006, he was seriously injured while serving in the IDF when he joined a paratrooper unit that was attacked. He overcame his injuries and founded an emerging biotech company that is in the process of developing an innovative device to reduce newborn mortality by delaying or preventing premature births. His wife, Rotem, is an intensive care nurse who treats seriously injured patients of all races and religions. She has been working non-stop since 7 October. They have three children: 13-year-old Nevo, gifted in mathematics, who just celebrated his Bar Mitzvah at the Wailing Wall; 10-year-old Omer, who is an artistic gymnast and aspires to be an Olympic medallist; and Doron, the seven-year-old, who regularly charms all of us.  My daughter, Illana, is a senior social worker and trauma specialist in the Municipality of Shoham. Since the unprovoked attack on Israel on 7 October, she has been on the frontline of the war at home, leading support groups to help the community deal with the trauma of the war. Helping families of hostages who have been released back home, and helping those that are still waiting for their loved ones to come back. Illana’s husband, Assaf, is an expert on law and psychiatry. He immediately volunteered to join his reserve unit on 7 October. They share four children. Yarden, aged 20, is doing his military service, as are almost all 20 year olds in Israel. He’s a soldier in an elite unit and we pray every day, we pray for his safe return home. Yahel, 15, was one of several thousand students who was accepted into an elite boarding school in Haifa, and she’s interested in maths and biology, and hopes to become a doctor. Shirah, 13, loves skating and participates in national competitions. And the last one, Ivri, 11, is a good student, has a wonderful sense of humour, and is a competitive swimmer.  My grandchildren have their whole future in front of them, and it breaks my heart to see them growing up in war. I hoped, and I believed – I did believe – that I had paid the price. And yet, my grandchildren must fight to defend their right to life in a Jewish state.  Unfortunately, as I stand here before you, I have left my country in the wake of violence, murder, rape and terror. After more than 100 days, there’s still 136 kidnapped hostages, dead or alive, in the hands of the terrorists.  Friends, I ask for your solidarity and your support to see those hostages reunited with their families. The entire country yearns to have them back alive. Help bring them back alive!  Sadly, after 7 October, the resurgence of anti-Semitism means that the hate of the past is still with us. Jews are again not feeling safe living in Europe. After the Holocaust, this should be unacceptable. ‘Never again’ should truly mean NEVER AGAIN.  I am now 86 years old. When I was born, Europe was still a collection of states with major grievances against each other. Europe was able, in the meantime, to set aside old hatred and come together. I truly believe that the values that inspired the European unity – respect for diversity, respect for freedom of religion, and the ability to live together in peace – have an important role to play in the future of the Middle East.  I have a dream. In my dream, my children, all children, live in a peaceful Middle East, one that is free of hate, especially towards us, the Jews. In my dream, the Jews find safety and security anywhere – anywhere they choose to call home – and anti-Semitism is finally a thing of the past. I won against Hitler. I am finally home. But my grandchildren must now fight for its survival. I call upon you, the Parliament of Europe, to help my dream come true. Together, only together with you, we can end anti-Semitism and achieve lasting peace.  Thank you.  Gracias.  Merci.  Dziekuje. Danke. Gracie. Obrigada.