On this Holocaust Remembrance Day, Finding Joy in My Grandparents’ Lives

I teach a 7th grade Holocaust class at my local Hebrew school. It is typically the first time my students have studied this topic in a classroom. As the school year unfolds, they will read stories, see videos, and hear survivor testimony that (I can only hope) will be seared into their minds forever.

But on that first night of class each year, I begin by showing my students a picture that does not reflect the worst of humanity, but rather the best of it.

It is a picture of my grandparents, Morris and Frieda Zimmerman, on their wedding day. Only three years removed from living in concentration camps, they look healthy. Left with no money or possessions upon liberation—my grandfather from Buchenwald, my grandmother from Bergen-Belsen—they are dressed to the nines. And despite having so much taken from them, they somehow are smiling and look genuinely happy.

Morris and Frieda Zimmerman on their wedding day: March 28, 1948 (courtesy of the Zimmerman family).

Yom Hashoah is, appropriately, a time for somber reflection on the Nazis’ attempt to exterminate the Jewish people—atrocities that are woven into the fabric of my family’s story. My grandparents lost both of their parents and most of their siblings during the Holocaust. Their lives were shattered, and they lived with the unimaginable pain and guilt common to Holocaust survivors for all of their days.

But each time I look at this photo, I am reminded that my grandparents also found love and experienced joy. Not just at their wedding, but on many days that followed.

That joy should be a part of our reflections, too. Even and especially on Yom Hashoah.

My grandmother once told me that, as hungry as she was in Bergen-Belsen, she would try to get in the back of the line for food. The longer you waited in the soup line, she explained, the greater your chances of getting not just a little bit of broth, but also a few pieces of solid potato in your bowl—morsels that could be the difference between life and death.

My grandmother was also a whiz in the kitchen, and potatoes were a mainstay of some amazing meals, from Shabbat dinners to Passover seders.

In the dead of winter in 1945, my grandfather survived a death march to Buchenwald.

My grandfather also loved taking walks, whether it was on the streets of Queens or the beaches of Fort Lauderdale.

As children, my grandparents were forced into slave labor by the Nazis—my grandfather in munitions factories, my grandmother in textile mills.

As adults, my grandparents owned and operated a successful dry cleaners store for the better part of 25 years.

My grandparents lost both sets of parents and nearly all of their siblings during the Holocaust.

My grandparents also had a son, three grandsons, and seven great grandchildren. There are now 15 Zimmermans over three subsequent generations. We all owe them our lives.

Every bit of that tapestry deserves to be honored and remembered.

Morris and Frieda Zimmerman (courtesy of the Zimmerman family).

As close as the Nazis came to accomplishing their insidious goals, they ultimately failed. That failure—and the ultimate failure of antisemitism over thousands of years—can be found in the courage and bravery of my grandparents and other survivors. It is also, however, found in the people they became and the lives they led afterwards. At different points in my grandparents’ lives, a potato, a walk, and a hard day’s work had completely different meanings. But it is only this complete picture of their lives—equal parts enduring strength and unlimited love—that fully captures hope, resilience, and survival.

My grandparents married in Belgium after the war and came to America in 1950. They had little family, no money, and spoke no English. But 58 years of marriage later, they had raised a son, built their own business, traveled widely, and—perhaps best of all—spent many happy days with their three grandchildren. My memories of being with them in New York and Florida are never very far away. Almost 20 years after their passing, I still see their faces and hear their voices.

They are gone, but they are here.

My son’s middle name is Morris. On this Yom Hashoah, I’m reminded again why he carries his great-grandfather’s name: not just to honor the burdens of the worst parts of my grandparents’ story, but also to celebrate the blessings and the beauty found in the best parts.

My children have each been given a piece of this unique legacy. So have my students.

May they, and we, keep and protect this legacy—on days like this and in all the days to come.