FINALLY UNDERSTANDING: How being the son of a Holocaust survivor shaped my life

“Maybe you can explain it to me. How could the people of a civilized nation like Germany
become such murderers? How could Hitler have been so cruel?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? Aren’t you studying psychology in college?”

“I am.”

“So how could you not know? If you don’t know, who will? You’re studying psychology.”

I was a sophomore in college. My mind scanned the psychology courses I had already taken: Introduction to Psychology, Child Psychology, and the Psychology of Adolescence. As far as I could recall I had not yet come across a satisfying answer to his questions. I did not like these discussions. I felt uncomfortable and inadequate; it was distressing for me to talk about the Holocaust with my father.

It was Saturday morning….about 8:45 AM. My father and I were on our way to synagogue. Walking. We were Orthodox Jews which meant we did not use a car on the Sabbath. My father insisted on being on time. No, actually he wanted to be early for services. I was a good boy; nineteen years old, but a good boy. I took it upon myself to make sure that I was ready when he left so that I could go with him. It was a rather long walk, almost a mile. So we walked together in the heat of the summer and the cold of the winter; however, I was not particularly fond of long discussions early in the morning…….certainly not about the Holocaust.

My father was a “survivor”. He had gone through the concentration camps. He suffered indignities that few of us could even imagine. Through the years he had shared some of the details of some of his experiences with me. It was painful hearing how he suffered and how his family was murdered. Only one brother and he survived from a large family. Parents, brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, in-laws, uncles, and aunts all gone..…and not even a grave to mark that they had ever lived. I did not blame him for broaching this topic as often as he did, but I did not feel like trying to answer his difficult questions.

My father, was a sewing machine mechanic. He made a very decent salary, was well known and respected in his field, and he always worked hard to provide for his family: my mother, my younger brother, and me. “Worked hard”….that is an understatement. I cannot remember him taking even one day off for sickness or inclement weather. His commute from Newark, New Jersey to Manhattan involved a bus, a subway, and a significant walk. He left the house at 7:00 AM and often did not return home until 7:00 PM. Having grown up in poverty in Eastern Europe, he wanted us to be comfortable and have everything that we needed. Furthermore, it was important to him that we remain observant Jews. Consequently, he and my mother denied themselves luxuries so that my brother and I could attend yeshiva day school and high school.

“I did not have the opportunity for college. I am glad that you are going. You will be able to make a good living. I wish I had gone to college; I would be earning so much more money.”

It was 1969. I was a child of the ’60’s and the idea of money being a key to happiness was almost an anathema to my generation.

“You know, money is not the most important thing in life.”

“Oh, no? If you are short a nickel, do you think they’ll let you on the subway?”

Our conversation was right on schedule. So typical of those we had on the way to synagogue. Next up was the war in Vietnam, politics, the difference in the quality of the music of his generation compared to the music of mine, and finally long hair. I did not mind defending the views of my generation, but I just listened whenever he spoke about the misery of the concentration camps and opportunities he had missed in life. In these instances I was so relieved when we finally got to the synagogue.

I guess, in retrospect, I was already playing the role of psychologist by being a good listener; however, at times like these I found myself thinking that perhaps I should never have told my family that I had decided to study psychology. My parents were not exactly cryptic in voicing their hope that I would become a doctor. Of course their intention was for me to become a medical doctor: a healer, a high income earner, and the high priest of society in those days.

There was only one problem with my studying medicine. I could not stand the sight of blood. Even talking about medical conditions could make me extremely squeamish. When I thought about physical injuries in enough detail, I could feel myself getting light-headed and panicky. These traits do not bode well for a person planning to make medicine one’s vocation.

Early in my career I assumed that the dynamic behind my decision to study psychology was the realization that I could be a doctor and hopefully a source of pride for my parents, without worrying about blood and guts. Of course a PhD was not a “real” doctor, but years later I think my parents derived some pleasure in the instances they referred to me as “doctor.” Outsiders did not have to know of my “shortcoming”…….that I was not a medical doctor.

It is now 2017, and I love my profession. My father, who unfortunately passed away in 2008 at the age of 96, spoke about the Holocaust until the end of his life. I now understand that he suffered a horrible trauma and nothing I could have said would have erased his painful memories. Nor could I supply any cogent or reasonable response as to how something as heinous as the mass murder and torture of six million innocent people by the government of a civilized country, while the world remained silent, could have transpired. As an adult I now know that there simply are no answers to these questions. More important, I recognize that my discomfort during those walks to synagogue, all those years ago, originated from feelings of helplessness and impotence to make everything okay for my father….something that I desperately wanted to do.

Nevertheless, I now understand that my career choice of psychologist was not just a means to be a doctor sans the medical component. I finally understand that as a son and a skillful psychologist I was able to do something that no other professional, not even a medical doctor would have been trained to do. I now know that my sympathetic ear, empathy, and words of validation through the years were palliative. I may not have been able to take away my father’s pain, but I was always there to share it with him. For this I am grateful.