Paul Kessler: The Upstander Whisperer

On the morning of 11 November 2011, I was at the Corner Bakery Café in downtown Dallas, drinking coffee and waiting for my breakfast. News and social media platforms were full of juxtaposing claims about the numerological significance of the day: 11.11.11. Some assured it would be the end of the world, while others expected spiritual awakenings to occur. I wondered how my life would change on that remarkable day. At the café, I was sitting near the window. There was an old man, sitting at the other table. We exchanged smiles, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk. He also seemed quiet, reading his newspaper. When the waitress brought our breakfasts, she giggled and said: “You two shepherds picked the same breakfast. Enjoy!” She served the plates and left.

The old man and I smiled again. He said: “Shepherd’s Scrambled Eggs! Delicious, isn’t it?”

I replied: “Yes, and nutritious.”

He ate it quickly, saying he would speak to schoolchildren across the street. Before he left, “Tell the receptionist that you are Paul Kessler’s guest. Hope you can join us!”

After an hour, I was sitting around schoolchildren at the Dallas Holocaust and Human Rights Museum. Amidst his speech at 11:11 a.m., Paul whispered the words of Albert Einstein: “The world is a dangerous place, not because of those who do evil, but because of those who look on and do nothing.”

What made you start actively sharing your story of survival and the lessons from the Holocaust at the Dallas Holocaust and Human Rights Museum, and many educational institutions?

For most of my life, I didn’t think much about the Holocaust. The only thing I focused on was that my father was murdered in Auschwitz. While working in Poland for five years in the 1990s, I visited Auschwitz and obtained a record of my father, which included details about when he arrived and when he died. Unbelievable that the Nazis kept records of over a million people whom they murdered there. I retired in 2000 after our time in Poland. We settled in Fort Worth, near where my wife was from. In 2001, the World Trade Center was attacked with tragic results. I started reading about the rise of Antisemitism and the vilification of Israel. I wanted to do something. I was introduced to Monica (Posy) McMillen, a very kind-hearted Christian and one of the biggest supporters of the Jewish community in our area. She organized and led tours to Israel, where she had many friends, and some readers may recognize her name. Posy studied Judaism and taught courses in Fort Worth on topics ranging from religion to the history of Antisemitism. She is more knowledgeable about Judaism than most Jews I know. Posy invited me to the Dallas Holocaust Museum and introduced me to the management team. Shortly after, I started sharing my story with school groups at the museum and going to schools and other venues. Over the years, I have met many wonderful children and grown-ups and received thousands of letters from grateful students and teachers. I feel very fortunate to be able to make a meaningful impact in the lives of many people, which has brought me profound fulfillment, especially at this stage of my life.

You were born in 1939 in Vranov nad Toplóu in former Czechoslovakia when World War II began. Unfortunately, your father and the majority of your family and relatives were deported to Auschwitz Concentration Camp in Poland. Your mother wanted to save you and her two siblings by relocating to Zemianske Sady. Why did she choose that village amidst the dangerous conditions across the region?

I was born in September 1939, as you know, the month and year that World War II began when Germany invaded Poland. Czechoslovakia was divided, much like today, and we lived in a small village in eastern Slovakia. The Slovak government supported Germany and enacted many of the same laws that the Nazis had passed in Germany. In 1942, the Slovaks deported most of their Jewish population of about 100,000—including my father and others in our family—to concentration camps, where approximately 80% of Slovakian Jews perished. Sometime during 1944, my mother heard that the German military was approaching our village. She intuitively felt that we had to leave soon. She decided to take the five remaining members of our family—herself, me, her mother, sister, and brother—and we traveled about 100 miles to Zemianska Kert (known as Zemianske Sady today). This was supposed to be a safe haven, with a factory where one could find work. We lived there with two families, who were strangers to us. I don’t know if we paid them; we couldn’t have had much money.

You and your mother were hidden in a concealed space for seven months in Zemianske Sady. Despite the significant risk to their own lives, your neighbors provided essential protection and support. How did you and your mother endure the difficulties of hiding in such a tiny space—coping with cold weather, lack of light, insufficient food, and the constant fear of being discovered?

We had no choice. In 1944, when we went into hiding, my mother knew our lives were at risk. I’m sure I had no idea how dangerous our situation was at age five. I may have thought that what we were doing was normal. We are not heroes or victims. We were blessed that these simple peasant farmers hid us at the risk of their own lives. Undoubtedly, if we were discovered, both we and the people who hid us would have been killed on the spot. We were hidden beneath a potato hole attached to their home. Once a day, when they could, our saviors would bring us a cup of soup and sometimes a piece of bread. I know there were many days when my mother gave me all the portions to keep me quiet—so we wouldn’t be discovered. We passed the time with my mother telling me Slovak and Jewish folk tales. Although I don’t remember much, we did a lot of counting because I know that I could count up to 10,000 when we were freed.

We were liberated by Russian troops on 1 April 1945. We emerged from that hole to the sounds of celebrations. We had been in the dark for so long that we couldn’t even open our eyes to the sun. When we could see, they took us across the street, where another family was hiding my aunt and uncle. There was no sign of my grandmother. After we regained some strength, we made our way back to our village. A couple of weeks later, my grandmother showed up. When the Germans came to Zemianske Sady, she had been hiding behind a bush, but some people turned her in. She was sent to Auschwitz. Thankfully, my grandmother survived. Out of our family of over twenty people, only seven survived. I was the only Jewish child to return to Vranov.

Paul Kessler, 1947

Following your survival, you embarked on a long journey with your mother, eventually leading you to Canada…

After we returned to Vranov, our house was still standing—life started over. I began school in 1945. I was happy to go to school and play soccer with my schoolmates. In 1948, a military coup in Czechoslovakia placed the country under Russian Communist rule. My mother remarried the same year. My stepfather was the only survivor of his entire family. I remember my mother once saying, “First the Nazis, and now the Communists. We need to leave!” Getting visas for the United States wasn’t easy, but my stepfather had friends in Canada who helped sponsor us, allowing us to immigrate to Montreal in the autumn of 1949. We came from a tiny, relatively primitive village. To give you an idea of our world, we arrived on a ship sailing from Rotterdam. I remember that the city was completely bombed out. We arrived in Quebec City, where we bought a Pepsi, something we’d never seen before, and it immediately made us feel ill. There was an escalator in the port that took us up to the train for Montreal. Having never seen an escalator before, I recall running up and down the moving stairs—and having a blast! My mother was scared by the escalator since we were coming from a small rural town. She asked my stepfather and me to help her step on the escalator. Eventually, she got used to the new city and lifestyle. We stayed in Montreal for a year.

Paul & Pamela Kessler, and me at the University of North Texas, 2015

Our paths crossed on 11.11.11 in Dallas during my studies. How did you end up in the United States?

In 1950, we received visas for the United States. We moved to Los Angeles, where my stepfather had a brother and sister who immigrated to the U.S. before the war. They helped us settle down, though it wasn’t easy since the Communists allowed us to bring only what we could carry and a small amount of cash, about the equivalent of $50 in today’s conditions. We lived in one room and didn’t speak the language, but we were happy to be in a free country. I loved playing soccer. When I was 19, I went to play in Guadalajara, Mexico. In the autumn of 1960, I received a letter from my mom saying I had been drafted into the army. I returned to the U.S. and served in the military for the required two years. My final posting was at Camp Wolters in Mineral Wells, Texas. It was about 70 miles from Dallas. While stationed there, I found a soccer team in Dallas and traveled to play every weekend. I liked Dallas, and after leaving the army, I got a job with American Express in 1963.

Later, I met a beautiful young woman named Pamela. We started dating and eventually got married. In 1976, I was transferred to Canada and became the office manager at American Express in Montreal. Isn’t it ironic? I spent 40 wonderful years with American Express, working with the company across North America and Europe and having the chance to travel to many parts of the world. It was quite a journey for a boy from Vranov nad Toplou.

Paul & Pamela Kessler with the Mayor, Priest, and Eva in the graveyard of the Hajdak Family in Zamianske Sady, 2018

You wanted to visit the town many years later and reconnect with the neighbors who saved your lives. Could you please share your reflections on the experience of reaching out and revisiting the village after such a considerable passage of time?

For many years, I wanted to find the family who hid us and saved our lives. I rarely thought about the Holocaust, except that my father was murdered. My mother passed away in 1997, and I had never asked her any questions about our time in hiding.

Hajdak Family, 1937

The only thing I knew was the name of the village where we hid, but I couldn’t locate it online, and even a visit to the tourist office in Slovakia didn’t help. Eventually, I discovered that the name Zemianska Kert had been changed to Zemianske Sady shortly after the war. With the help of a Slovakian local Zuzana Peer, we found Eva, the granddaughter of the Hadjak Family, who saved us. We visited on 1 May 2018, and it was an incredible experience filled with tears and smiles. Before our visit, I contacted Kay Granger, our representative in Congress. She arranged for an American flag to fly over the U.S. Capitol for a day in honor of Zemianske Sady. I brought this flag along with certificates in English and Slovak to present to the mayor and the people of the town. I think the villagers could hardly believe what was happening.

Michal Hajdak & His Daughter Matilda. Behind them, Paul Kessler and His Mother were hidden in a small hole in the storage room, 1947

Meeting Eva was deeply emotional, with many tears. She told me that her mother used to talk about the family they hid during the war, but she thought her mother was making up the story. Her mother, who passed away in the 1990s, often wondered “what had happened to that little boy,” and Eva realized that the story was true.

Childhood playmates Pavlina & Paul reunited, May 2018

They prepared a large feast of food, just like my mother used to make. Eva also gave me a detailed plan of the house where we had been hidden, as it was very old and no longer existed. They even reunited me with my childhood playmate, Pavlina. We visited the Hajdak family’s grave, where the local priest led prayers, and I brought a plaque of remembrance, which was placed on the gravestone. I also brought some gifts, but I was unsure of their tastes. I offered Eva an envelope with money so she could choose something herself. She refused to accept it, no matter what. Once again, I was speechless for this family’s integrity, kindness, and compassion.

Your teaching efforts emphasize the importance of speaking up and not being bystanders. How can individuals effectively become upstanders for positive change? 

I have been speaking at the Dallas Holocaust and Human Rights Museum for about 20 years, primarily to student groups who visit the museum. Occasionally, I also give talks at schools and different community groups. I’ve received hundreds of letters from students with comments like, ‘We will never forget you,’ ‘You changed my life,’ and ‘I will tell my children about your teachings,’ which sometimes bring tears to my eyes. At this stage of my life, I feel fortunate to have an impact on—hopefully—a good number of young people and adults. Knowing I made a difference to even one person like you makes it all worthwhile.

About 15 years ago, we began teaching people to be upstanders rather than bystanders—to stand up and speak out against hate and prejudice. It’s a simple message, but how do we truly inspire people to become upstanders? We teach that the Holocaust could have been prevented if not for the silence of so many. Elie Wiesel once said that those who remained silent were guilty of indifference. He said, ‘Indifference is a greater sin than the act itself.’ I sometimes use an example from my school days to illustrate this point. I remember instances when students would get into fights during lunch or recess, and other students would gather around, cheering them on. I tell students that when 20 people watch two people fight, they can easily stop it. Or, they can get a teacher or principal to handle the situation.

I also encourage students to study and get a good education to avoid regretting missed opportunities in life. I tell them that for centuries, the world has tried to destroy Jewish people. As a small minority, we could not always fight back physically, but I believe we resisted through education, which helped us survive. Education is a core value of Judaism, going all the way back to the Torah.

Despite the persistence of political polarizations and Holocaust denial in some countries and media, what motivates your continued dedication to teaching the lessons from the Holocaust?

I believe that teaching the lessons of the Holocaust is crucial, and we have dedicated ourselves for a long time. Some may feel it has been enough, yet the recent resurgence of Antisemitism around the world—even in our schools—reminds us of the need for continued education. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks observed that every few centuries, Antisemitism would rear its ugly head, always for a different reason. In today’s world, it often appears in discussions surrounding Zionism and Israel. Many students I’ve spoken with have never met a Jewish person or learned anything about Jewish culture or history. For this reason, I have been advocating for Holocaust museums to include exhibitions about the Jewish lifecycle, traditions, and contributions to medicine, technology, literature, art, and more. Learning more about us from different angles would help to transform prejudices and hatred.

To understand their correlation to conflicts and peacebuilding, I studied world religions. In Judaism, I am drawn to the concept of Tikkun Olam (Repairing/Healing the World). Do you have any Jewish wisdom that is significant to you?

One teaching that resonates with me is, “When you save one life, you save the world.” Judaism holds life as sacred, with every individual life being important. This value encourages Jews to help those in need and to offer aid to anyone who requires it. For example, Israel is often among the first to respond to disasters worldwide, even extending help to countries with conflicts.

While studying at The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, I took Modern Hebrew courses and learned unique words. I liked the word Firgun / פִּרגוּן, which originates from Yiddish and means genuine happiness for someone else’s blessings. Do you have a favorite Hebrew word?

I like the word Chaim / חַיִּים, which means life or lives. It reflects a profound perspective in Jewish tradition as we embrace life, vitality, and resilience. When we raise our glass, we say, “L’Chaim / to life!”

Over the years, you have made a lasting impression as someone who radiates gratitude and embraces life with open arms. Your outlook has been a source of inspiration, positivity, and resilience to many children and youth. How could you find meaning and hold onto life after all the sorrows?

In his book Man’s Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl articulates that we inevitably encounter circumstances beyond our control in life. What truly matters is how we choose to respond. When I feel overwhelmed, I remember the words of Viktor Frankl: “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”