Today is a different kind of day in Israel. Last night, when the day officially starts on the Jewish calendar, there were memorial events for the victims of the Holocaust with the one at Yad Va’shem broadcast on every television station in the country. For someone like myself, who only found out later in life how many family members we had lost to poison, fire and bullets, there is a confusing sense of loss and believe it or not, hope.

The destruction of European Jewry is all but finished. What the Germans started, the Muslims and Catholics are ending. In 1936 there were 9.5 million Jews living in Europe, and as far as I can tell the muslim population was almost non-existent. Ninety years later there are roughly 1.3 million Jews left in Europe, and there are somewhere near 46 million Muslims. What started with Hitler is ending with Mohammed.

Around 12 years ago our youngest son was assigned a project at school where he was required to interview a Holocaust survivor. He asked if I thought my father, Rabbi Joseph Katz, z”l, would be a good person to talk to. Born in Guxhagan Germany in 1932, my dad rarely spoke about his experiences growing up, in fact almost never, but from what I knew, I told him if my father agreed, it would be a worthwhile pursuit. Little did I know. What I thought I knew was nothing compared to what I was about to find out.

Filming the video of my son’s interview, I realized that, while I had heard much of what my father had told me, including my dad and his parents getting out go Germany in May of 1941, it wasn’t until my father said something that made me stop the camera and interrupt.

“Yeah, I have my passport in my sock drawer.”

I told my dad it might be helpful for the project if my son could add a picture of the passport to his report. My father returned from his bedroom and placed the three passports – his and my grandfathers as well as his uncle’s, on the table in front of us.

There are moments in a person’s life that are so jarring they become seared in your memory forever. Looking at the front cover of his passport with its big swastika, I could not wrap my head around the fact that I never knew these existed. “Dad, did you ever think, at some point over the past 50 years, you could have found a minute to say something like: “Chaim, can you please pass the salt and ‘Oh, by the way, I have a Nazi passport in my sock drawer’?” My father responded in his usual casual fashion, “I didn’t think it was important.”

My father passed away on the eighth day of Sivan almost eleven months ago at 93 years old, leaving my mother, four children, and many grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It was a life well lived – all the more so when you consider he almost never got to the age of ten.

Fast forward a few years to the summer of 2019. My wife and I took a trip to Israel; my first time back in 34 years. Having loosely planned our itinerary, we took a morning to visit Yad Vashem-the Holocaust memorial complex in Jerusalem. There is a famous section at the museum set aside for non-Jews who helped our people survive the war years, called the Avenue of the Righteous. Having always been interested in seeing it and paying homage to those special people, we set out to find it. I now know it is outdoors, a few memorials lining a sidewalk. But back then, our search took us into a building, where we were met by a man named Ephraim. He directed us to follow him. I had experienced plenty of silent walks like this as a child, most of which ended up with a visit to the principal’s office. My mind danced as I imagined what life in an Israeli prison would be like. Ephraim sat us down opposite a desk and calmed my concern by asking, “Where are you from?” After we gave him some general information, he asked about our parents and grandparents and I mentioned to him my father had left Germany in May 1941.

“May of ’41? You sure?”

“He has his passport that verifies the........

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