Bravery and hope: my grandmother’s Holocaust story.
I remember the exact moment that changed everything. It was June 20th, and we were celebrating my cousin’s wedding in Beit Nuba. The chuppah was one of the most moving I had ever attended. A Chayal, recently injured in the army, limped down the aisle on crutches. Tears of pride filled my eyes as I thought about how beautiful and resilient we are as a people. But those tears of pride quickly turned into tears of worry when I received a message about my grandmother that shattered my world. My glamorous, adventurous, and fiercely independent Mama had been rushed to hospital. I stood next to my father, watching as tears welled in his eyes and then in mine. Moments later, his phone buzzed again with the message: “Please don’t tell the girls… it’s the C word.” My heart sank. Mama had been quietly enduring stomach pains for months. What we all assumed was indigestion or a change in diet turned out to be pancreatic cancer.
As the wedding continued, I couldn’t bring myself to celebrate fully. My father and I knew we had to be there for her during what we were told was a life-or-death operation. We rushed to Hadassah Ein Kerem hospital in Jerusalem, arriving just before Mama was taken into surgery. Despite the circumstances, she looked beautiful, even in a hospital gown. Her calm, sensible demeanour and her ability to thank everyone she encountered, even in pain, struck me deeply.
That night, Mama underwent emergency surgery. It was touch and go, but she survived. The exceptional Israeli doctors treated her with the utmost dignity, seeing her as a person with a life worth fighting for, not just as an elderly woman. Their compassion and professionalism gave us precious time with her, for which we will always be grateful.
For months afterward, Mama faced the relentless pain of pancreatic cancer with the same grace and strength that had defined her entire life. She endured countless hospital visits and the discomfort of a stoma bag, but her spirit never wavered. She stayed glued to the news, deeply moved by the daily accounts of fallen soldiers and innocent civilians.
The tragic events of October 7th, which claimed the lives of so many, brought back haunting memories of the unimaginable losses she witnessed during the Holocaust.
Mama was born in 1934 in Strasbourg. She was a happy little girl until her childhood was stolen from her. At just eight years old, she was forced to flee with her siblings to Switzerland under false identities, pretending they were heading to a holiday camp. They travelled with 32 other children, led by a courageous 22 -year-old member of the French Resistance, Marianne Cohn, who saved their lives.
At the border town of Annemasse, the terrifying barks of Nazi dogs filled the air as the Gestapo interrogated them at gunpoint, demanding to know if they were Jewish. Despite her denials, Mama was imprisoned at the Prison du Pax, where she endured the screams of others being tortured, sounds that haunted her for the rest of her life. Marianne Cohn was brutally raped, tortured, and murdered, but her sacrifice saved over 200 children, including my grandmother. It was thanks to the intervention of Jean Deffaugt, the Lord Mayor of Annemasse, who bravely negotiated with the Gestapo and secured the release of the youngest children, that Mama and her siblings were ultimately saved.
(Read more about Mama’s story at Holocaustmatters.org.)
After the war, Mama reunited with her family and began to rebuild her life. She worked for her father as a fabric buyer before moving to Germany, where she met my grandfather, Ernst Israel Bornstein, at the age of 30. Mama was introduced to Papa by mutual friends at a Bar Mitzvah in Strasbourg, and that meeting marked the beginning of their remarkable journey together.
My grandfather was a survivor of seven concentration camps, and after the war, he studied medicine and dentistry, dedicating himself to helping others despite the horrors he had endured. Troubled by the fact that many of his patients were unfamiliar with the Holocaust or believed it was exaggerated, he decided to document his experiences. He wrote his memoir, Die Lange Nacht, which my mother later translated into English (The Long Night), ensuring that his story would continue to educate and inspire future generations.
After my grandfather passed away due to the long-term effects of his suffering during the Shoah, Mama moved to Manchester, England, where she raised her three children as a young widow.
Mama dedicated much of her life to Holocaust education, speaking tirelessly in schools and communities. Her efforts earned her a British Empire Medal (BEM), a recognition she accepted with humility. For 66 years, she kept her memories buried, only beginning to share her story publicly in 2011.
In 2019, Mama retraced her steps to Annemasse with my mother to thank the relatives of Marianne Cohn and the mayor who saved her life. This journey was documented by the BBC in My Family, the Holocaust, and Me.
Mama’s life was a testament to resilience. Despite her hardships, she exuded warmth, dignity, and kindness. She taught me to see the humanity in everyone, to give generously, and to be grateful. Even in the hospital, she thanked every doctor, nurse, and cleaner with genuine appreciation.
Her love for Israel and Zionism was central to her identity. Making Aliyah was the fulfilment of a lifelong dream, and she found immense joy living in Jerusalem, surrounded by her family. She made her home with my wonderful aunty and uncle in the vibrant and welcoming neighbourhood of Baka, where the streets buzzed with life and warmth. She adored French music, particularly Edith Piaf and Yves Montand, and sang her favourite nursery rhyme, Ainsi Font, to her grandchildren and great-grandchildren in her delicate, beautiful voice.
Mama passed away on November 28th, 2024, leaving behind a legendary legacy that continues to inspire me. At her funeral, I shared how she had always been my role model not just for her elegance but for her deep compassion. She taught us the importance of family, of valuing every person we meet, and of never forgetting our roots.
Her Hebrew name, Rochel, embodied her spirit. Like our matriarch Rachel, she was the protector of her family, fighting for us in life and, I believe, even now. Her love for Israel and her family knew no bounds, and she lived her life with dignity until the very end. She taught me what it means to face life’s challenges with strength and grace, and I feel privileged to have been so close to her. Through her work in Holocaust education and the way she lived her life, Mama taught us to remember the past while building a brighter future. She was more than my grandmother, she was my hero.
For more information about my grandmother, visit Holocaustmatters.org. To read her obituary, check out the articles in The Times and The Guardian.