Hate is a strong word, and maybe I use it here for a lack of a better word. Yes, I hate him for all the deaths he is to blame for, but it is what he has done to children both then and now that makes my heart ache.
The following is an excerpt from a paper I wrote for my human relations class while earning my master’s in counseling.
Like many Jews around the world I am horrified by, and also personally connected to the Holocaust. Members of my grandmother’s immediate family were persecuted in concentration camps. From an early age I have been exposed to video footage and personal stories of the Holocaust. I seek out opportunities to hear survivors speak and read memoirs as I yearn to connect with relatives I was never given the privilege to meet. Whenever I attend a survivor’s speaking engagement it is a deep, emotional experience. Anytime a memoir is for sale during an event I purchase it for two reasons. One, the obvious reason, is to read and learn more about their life’s experiences. The other reason, the more meaningful one to me, is to support their courage for sharing their story with the world. After the concentration camps were liberated many survivors wished to return to and/or begin a “normal” life. Talking about personal tragedy and heartache does not come naturally to all survivors. There are survivors, like Anne Frank, who dreamed of sharing their stories at the end of the war. Then there were others who couldn’t believe there was anyone who would want to hear their story or would even believe the horrors they experienced.
I appreciated and enjoyed the opportunity to speak with the panel of International students in small groups. I learned, firsthand, from a German that children in Germany are raised not only learning about WWII and the Holocaust, but feeling the guilt as well. They are taught that they are responsible for many horrible historical events. As American children are taking field trips to pumpkin patches, German children are visiting concentration camps. This strips them of the national pride that Americans have, despite slavery.
I spoke with the German student afterward one-on-one to share my personal connection to the Holocaust with her. At that moment I was torn between my family’s suffering and my natural desire to advocate for all children. Part of me was happy to hear that Germans do not hide their country’s past from their children, like Americans sometimes do. The other part of me felt pain for all the German children who are feeling guilt at such a young age, whatever that age is, for what Hitler masterminded. My personal prejudices are not against Germans, just Hitler himself. I damn Hitler even more for causing generations of Germans guilt that he, as the leader, should have felt.
Having never been given the opportunity to speak candidly with a German prior to this, my emotions caught me off guard. The emotional pain that runs in my blood coupled with the shame in her eyes caused the tears to flow freely. The apology she repeatedly offered was genuine, but did not stop me from crying. I was crying because I do not hold her personally responsible, but it also got me thinking, why don’t I, as a white American, feel more guilt about slavery? Maybe the answer is as simple as I do not hold myself personally responsible.
I have a memory of complaining to her about a Spanish class I was taking in junior high. I quickly learned that I was complaining to the wrong person. It was then that she shared with me that she was about my age when she moved to the United States. Every day she went to school and copied everything off of the chalkboard, to go home and study it. Like many teenagers and immigrants she did not want to stand out. Her Polish accent along with her native language was replaced after much hard work with that of the voice of an American born citizen.
But it was only until recently when I picked up a new book, Rutka’s Notebook, that I realized what drives me to read and hear so much. I yearn to find out what happened to my relatives. Here was a book from a Polish 14-year old girl, who some are referring to as the Polish Anne Frank. What if somewhere in the photos were my relatives? What if their names are mentioned (those I know or those I do not know; the children of my grandmother’s sister) in one of these books? 
