(RNS) — I was 10 years old when I first learned about the Holocaust. My family gathered in our den to watch a television documentary, “Let My People Go,” a history of the Jewish people. It featured footage from the ghettos and death camps. My family watched in silence, until my mother broke the silence by saying: “And now you know why we will never own a German car.”

That was my first lesson on the depth of evil. But some months later, there was a second lesson, on the heights of goodness. 

I had a friend whom I will call Ira. An old woman, Anya, lived in his house and spoke little or no English. I assumed she was my friend’s grandmother. “No,” he corrected me, “she’s the lady who hid my mother in a closet during the war. My mother was so grateful to her that she brought her to the United States with her.”

Right after Ira became bar mitzvah, his family made aliyah (moved to Israel), and we lost touch.

Ten years later, I went to Israel for the first time. Within days of my arrival, I called my old friend’s family and we became reacquainted. Within the first few minutes of our phone conversation, I jumped to the topic that had been on my mind for years. “And the old Polish woman? Whatever became of her?” I asked.

“When we decided to make aliyah,” Ira’s mother told me, “we offered to buy Anya a house in New York and to support her for the rest of her life. But she said to us, ‘Where else could I live? Who else could I live with? You’re my family.’ And so we brought her with us to Tel Aviv.”

Somehow, I knew the answer to the next question even before I asked it.

“Is she still alive? She was already so old … ”

“No, she died just a few years ago.”


“Where did you bury her?” I asked.


“Here in Israel. Where else?” I could hear her weeping through the phone.


I have never forgotten that old woman, because her life was a one-woman refutation of the myth that all Jewish history was unrelenting darkness, a dark pageant of those who sought to kill us and often succeeded.

It was in that spirit, and as my way of marking Yom Hashoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day) — which this year takes place from Monday evening (April 13) to nightfall Tuesday — that I watched the movie “One Life.” Starring Anthony Hopkins, it tells the story of Sir Nicholas Winton. In 1938, the British stockbroker happened to be in Prague when he realized the enormity of what was unfolding before his eyes.

Winton raised money to fund the transports of Jewish children, organizing what were called trains of hope to move children to British foster families before World War II began. He saved the lives of 669 Jewish children.

For years, Winton lived quietly, keeping his secret. Years later, his wife found a scrapbook in which he had documented his activities. The film depicts the famous televised reunion in which he met many of those he had saved.

Through it all, he was humble, self-effacing, never bragging about the outsized impact he had on so many lives and on world history. He died in 2015, at the biblical age of 106 years old. Those 669 Jewish children have produced more than 6,000 descendants.

I think of these stories of righteous non-Jews (Christians and Muslims) who saved Jewish lives during the Holocaust. Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust remembrance center, recognizes over 28,000 such stories through trees planted for the heroes. 

But not everyone who saved Jewish lives was righteous. 

A few years ago, a friend told me about how her mother survived the war. The woman had grown up in a small Polish village, where the mayor was a notorious antisemite. All the Jews had gone into hiding in the village. 

The German troops came into town, and an officer came into the mayor’s office demanding a list of all the Jews. The mayor shrugged his shoulders and told them: “There are no Jews here. They all left several weeks ago.”

The officer departed; the danger was averted. Hours later, several Jews came into the mayor’s office, and they asked him: “You hate us. Why did you refuse to give us up to the Nazis?”

The mayor replied, “I might hate you, but I am not a murderer.”

That mayor was not alone. Zofia Kossak-Szczucka was from a prominent Polish family and a member of a nationalistic, antisemitic Catholic organization. Nevertheless, she helped found the Zegota, which saved between 40,000 and 50,000 Jewish adults and 2,500 Jewish children.

She wrote: “Our feelings towards Jews have not changed. We continue to deem them political, economic and ideological enemies of Poland.” And yet: “In the face of murder it is wrong to remain passive … this protest is demanded of us by God, who does not allow us to kill.”

Just as evil is a mystery, so, too, is goodness. 

What does this mean to us today?

There is a classic horror movie cliché. At the end of the movie, you think that the monster — Jason, Freddy, Michael Myers — is dead. The credits roll. Then the arm shoots up from the grave.

The arm of the antisemitic monster is shooting up from the grave.

These times do not call on non-Jews to hide their Jewish friends. Thank God. But these times do call upon non-Jews to be allies. 

How?

First, when there is news of antisemitism, reach out to the Jews in your life. Even a simple text, “I saw this in the news and I am thinking of you,” is appreciated.

Second, when there are acts of antisemitism in your community, speak out. Post about it on social media. Write letters to your local newspaper. 

Third, if you are a congregant of a religious institution, ask your clergyperson to denounce acts of Jew-hatred from the pulpit and to pray for your Jewish friends and neighbors.

Fourth, when you see hatred online, push back — vociferously. 

You don’t need to be heroic like Nicholas Winton, Oskar Schindler and other rescuers of Jews. Rather, in the words of Hillel: “In a place where there are no decent people, strive to be a decent person.” And nowadays, that is almost enough.