A Personal Reflection Across Generations
As a child, I only knew a few details of my father’s story.
He was born in Vienna to Helena and Albert Goldschmid. At seven years old, Helena and Albert put him on a train and sent him to safety with only a small suitcase, telling him they’d see him again soon.
They never did.
As the years went by, I learned more—about the Holocaust, my father’s escape, the horrors he witnessed, and the losses he carried. But there’s one part of his story that always stopped me in my tracks: The moment his parents placed him on that train.
He was just a little boy. And in his suitcase, they packed three sacred items: a siddur, a pair of tefillin, and a tallit.
As I grew older, I learned more about his story. The train was called Kindertransport, a rescue effort for thousands of Jewish children fleeing Nazi Europe. In that small suitcase, his parents packed three sacred things: a siddur, a tallit, and tefillin. He was just a little boy, and my grandparents didn’t know where he was going or if they’d see him again.
But they knew who he was, knew his faith would protect him, and knew the mitzvot they placed in his bag would protect him.
For years, I could never fully grasp what my grandparents must have felt. I understood it as a historical moment, a tragic decision born of desperation. But now, as a mother—and especially now, as a grandmother—that moment hits differently.
When I look at my own grandchildren, I feel love and the fierce protectiveness that only comes from watching your children’s children grow. That love allowed my grandmother to send her son to a future that wasn’t guaranteed, with just the hope that it would be better than the present.
But she didn’t send him empty-handed, she wrapped him in mitzvot. Today, when I watch my grandchildren light Shabbat candles or recite the Shema, I feel the echo of my grandparents’ actions.
Because of them, I am here. And now it’s my turn to wrap my grandchildren in mitzvot and ensure a future that is never guaranteed.
Our Story, Our Responsibility.
My family’s story is just one among millions, but it’s why I care so deeply about the future of my Jewish community. As I trace my roots, like many other Jewish families, I see resilience in every branch.
I see my grandmother and her siblings who fled to what would become Israel after their brother was beheaded by a Kozak on a horse in front of my grandmother. I see my family – from Vienna to Iraq, from Poland to Morocco, from Ukraine to Tunisia, from Russia to Iran—scattered across continents but holding strong to our identity through exile, persecution, and survival.
Like many families, I see how our ancestors built a life out of nothing.
My family has a long and proud history of serving on the front lines, defending our country for the dream of a Jewish homeland.
We are a people who have always fought for the right to exist as Jews. My family’s history is living inside me and is why I stand here today, as is yours.
Now it’s My Turn.
Today’s threats are different. But no less urgent. Since October 7, we’ve been living through a seismic shift. The war in Israel and a global surge in antisemitism have shown us that Jewish safety is never guaranteed.
I’m constantly reminded that Jewish pride is not always given. The biggest threats to our community and culture aren’t only antisemitism but ourselves.
We can’t protect what we don’t understand, and we can’t love what we were never taught to cherish.
That’s why every Jew must know their story – their family’s story. Our roots connect us all and anchor us together as a community.
We owe it to our ancestors who gave everything up, even the people they love most in the world, so that we could live with freedom and Jewish pride.
We owe it to Helena and Albert Goldschmid, who sent their boy, my father, into the unknown.
We owe it to our Jewish youth, who will live to carry on our traditions. Whether or not they live to see a strong Jewish future is up to us.
I want my grandchildren to stand in the light of our legacy and say as I have now. Because of them, I am here.
