It is extraordinary when worlds collide. On a recent journey to Israel, my family and I had the profound opportunity to experience Yad Vashem through an entirely new lens. Alongside my mentor and dear friend, Lynne Feldman—Director of Operations and Holocaust Scholarship for Teach the Shoah, as well as a seasoned Yad Vashem guide—we crafted a visit unlike any other. Together, we wove historical expertise with deeply personal testimony to retrace the steps of my grandparents, Minia from Łódź and Muni from Kielce.

As Lynne guided us through the galleries, we paused intentionally at the chapters of history that belonged to my family. There, I stepped into my role as a storyteller, sharing my grandmother Minia’s lived experiences in the exact spaces dedicated to those moments in time. In the Łódź Ghetto gallery, Lynne laid out the historical landscape before I shared Minia’s daily struggle for survival within the ghetto walls. In the Auschwitz gallery, amid the haunting artifacts, I recited the harrowing accounts of her arrival and the reality of life inside the camp. As we moved toward liberation, I told scenes documenting her enduring strength during the death march.

Sharing these testimonies before my husband David, our grown children Lexi and Aidan, my in-laws, our Israel tour guide, and a fellow descendant connected to Łódź was deeply moving. Yet, the emotional epicenter of the day took place in front of a single artifact in the Łódź Ghetto exhibit: a handwoven straw boot covering, designed to keep SS soldiers’ feet warm during the freezing winters.

Though I had seen photographs of these coverings before, standing face-to-face with one was overwhelming. Surrounding archival images showed young hands weaving straw to stay alive, making the weight of Minia’s survival painfully real.

Years ago, my grandmother stood in this exact spot at Yad Vashem, looked at that very display, and told her group, “I could have made this.”

Standing there decades later, telling her story with the next generation listening, created a powerful full-circle moment. It was a sacred bridge between past and present, a reminder of why we bear witness and ensure their voices endure.

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A good conference sends you home with new ideas about your work. A remarkable one can send you home with a new understanding of your own place in the work.

I recently attended the NewCAJE conference in Boston. I had been to two of these conferences in the past but only virtually. I found the virtual conferences invigorating and enriching but lacking the camaraderie of being physically there. Being in person in Boston, I finally found out what it is like to be surrounded by other dedicated Jewish educators. It was an exhilarating experience and an amazing opportunity.

Over the course of four days, I met dozens of people and had impromptu conversations that lasted late into the night. I made new friends and connections and heard many new ideas. I attended fascinating workshops, saw beautiful programs, and discovered new tools for Jewish educators. The emotional connection of being in the room with a speaker or performer who inspires or moves you is extraordinary. Best of all, I got to see several TTS tellers in person, most for the first time!

Perhaps the most gratifying part of the trip, though, was realizing that Teach the Shoah (TTS) already had a meaningful presence in this community. Everywhere I went, people knew about TTS. They were happy to see TTS so strongly represented at the conference. I was even asked why we had no vendor table. Apparently, some people were disappointed that they could not just come by and pick up literature and giveaways to share with their congregations!

The TTS workshops I presented drew far more interest than I could have imagined. They may even have drawn in a few new tellers. And I had the opportunity to discuss collaborations between TTS and other organizations focused on preserving Jewish history.

I learned, I taught, I shared, I explored, and I met with friends, old and new. I helped deepen TTS’s presence within the broader community of Jewish educators. I came home with new ideas and connections to share with TTS. But the most important thing I brought home was a clearer sense of my own place in this work, as a Holocaust educator and as a Jew.

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It is stunning when you hear antisemitism casually tumble from someone’s mouth.

During a recent social visit, I heard an otherwise kind person remark that “they” controlled the banking industry.

I paused, for I instantly caught his meaning. This was not the first time I had heard him make antisemitic comments. I had previously heard him say it’s funny it was Judah who wanted to sell Joseph into slavery because it’s typical for a Jew to want to make money off a situation. That time, I was overhearing a private conversation, so I could not speak up. This time was different.

I stopped him. Piece by piece, I asked short questions until he angrily blurted out “The Jews.”

He was livid. I had questioned his authority, quietly suggesting that his “facts” were not facts. I had forced him to state outright a belief that is only backed up by superstition and prejudice.

Unfortunately, he is a lay-leader in the church that most of the other guests attend. They respect him and believe he knows more than they do.

“The Rockefellers and Rothschilds are well known to be influential in that business,” another guest piped up. The Rockefellers are not Jewish, I explained as calmly as possible, and the Rothschilds have not been in banking for generations.

The group began to murmur that this was not the time nor place to discuss such matters. I begged to differ. What was the proper time and place, I wondered, if not when such a statement is made?

In this season of reflection, I find myself thinking about the moments like this – moments that ask something of us. Ordinary moments when we hear something wrong and have to decide what to do next.

Speaking up is not easy. The other guests at this gathering would clearly rather I had not. All they saw was that I had upset him. They knew I am Jewish, but they simply wanted us all to “play nice.” He’s a “good Christian man,” they tell me, “a good person who helps his mother.”

In the end, in an effort to calm him down, the subject was changed, and I left. I had made an impression, however. One of the women called me after. She hesitantly began to ask me questions. She was open to listening and thanked me, saying she would like to talk to me another time if I would.

Perhaps that is part of what this season asks of us: not that we fix everything, but that we refuse to let hatred pass unchallenged. We may not change the speaker, but we may reach someone else in the room.

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There was no shortage of commitment to Holocaust education at this summer’s NewCAJE conference. At least seven sessions focused on the Shoah, including two from Teach the Shoah (TTS). Participants could even earn a Holocaust Certificate.

What struck me, though, was how eager these educators were for tools that could help their students connect with the Holocaust on a deeper, more personal level – the very challenge I had come to address in my session on TTS’s educational approach.

My session participants were blown away by our storytelling technique. They were experienced educators who knew how to assign readings, display maps, and encourage students to interview survivors in their communities. They knew how to teach the history. What they needed was a way to make it personal.

I told a 3-minute story about the bravery of ballerina Francezka Mann as she arrived in Auschwitz. I showed them the primary sources I used to develop the story. We discussed which aspects of her experiences would or would not be appropriate for different audiences.

I shared a few brief pieces of written testimony from survivor June Salzer Prager. I gave them the opportunity to describe the images they formed from each. Then I told Juniya’s entire story, and we discussed the choices I made in the telling.

Several people told me later that they had found my workshop to be very impactful and useful to them as teachers. They thanked me for introducing them to this new tool for teaching about the Shoah.

In the evening, there was music, comedy, and moving performances. Jennifer Zunikoff’s portrayal of Emma Lazarus brought to life her passion for refugees – for people pushed from their homelands because they were considered too “other” – and her vision of an America that would welcome them. Then Dvora Caspi’s husband, Abba, led his choir onto the stage to sing “Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor,” Irving Berlin’s setting of Lazarus’s poem “The New Colossus.”

We ended the evening with Rachel Haymer (Kol Isha) singing, and her lyrics electrified me with purpose. We in the audience sang along to her words: “It’s on us”. ­

And there it is. It is indeed on us. Both Jewish and non-Jewish educators want to teach this aspect of Jewish history, but they need new tools and effective resources to do it. We at TTS have the tools and resources and, most importantly, the people to help them do it.

It’s on us.

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Sometimes an experience gives you a lot more than you expect. That was the case when I recently attended NewCAJE, an annual conference for Jewish educators. I was not there as a Teach the Shoah (TTS) teller but rather attended because of my job as a temple educator. I expected the conference would provide inspiration and ideas to enhance my teaching, and it did. However, the most valuable takeaway was unrelated to this. Instead, it was the connections I made with other TTS storytellers.

During the conference I met several TTS members whom I had only met over Zoom, as well as one whom I hadn’t met but whose name I recognized. I instantly felt a bond to each of them. We talked, laughed, gave positive support before sessions we were presenting, and learned more about each other’s lives. In other words, we formed a community. What surprised me was how quickly and easily this happened, which reflects on the wonderful atmosphere created by TTS leadership and everyone involved.

Since taking the Moving from Testimony to Story class a year ago, I have felt the strength and support of the TTS community. Through the willingness of others in my class to listen to me experimenting with scenes and revising them until they worked, the appreciations given after a presentation, the workshops during which storytellers can receive help from each other, and so much more, the sense of being part of a community is always there.

Even outside the actual storytelling, members of the TTS community clearly care about each other. Recently, someone mentioned that she had experienced an antisemitic incident. TTS members immediately responded with their support in terms of her response and their pride in her for responding as she did. Birthday wishes sent to others in the group are more than just “happy birthday” because they often include an appreciation of the person’s contribution to TTS.

Telling Holocaust stories can be hard. Each time I tell my dad’s story, I wonder how it will be received by the listeners and whether it will make a difference. The emotions I feel when telling the story stay with me for quite some time. Having the TTS community’s support is invaluable in so many ways and is greatly appreciated.

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I have heard many positive things said by participants after a storytelling presentation. Some of the most memorable comments, however, have come from high school students. At a recent program at a public high school near my home in the Dallas area, we not only shared stories of the Holocaust and talked about the history, but we also talked about the assorted cultures of Jews in various places across Europe and how those cultures were impacted by the Holocaust. Many resulting comments and questions from the students were poignant and insightful, but one in particular stood out.

“I always knew [the Holocaust] was bad, but it wasn’t until I heard you tell this girl’s story in her own voice that I understood how bad it really was, how horrible it must have been for the people that lived through it.”  The young lady who said this went on to talk about how eye-opening it was to hear about a girl roughly her own age (16 or 17 years old) coping with such traumatic issues. She compared this to her own life and was genuinely moved by her counterpart’s struggles. This young woman then commented on the similarities in day-to-day life between herself and the girl whose story she had just heard. It was clear she saw more things they had in common than differences between them.

The best part about this girl’s reaction to my story was what she did with it. A few weeks later, I came back to the school as a parent evaluator. This is a role specific to this school where parents of students at the school are invited to view and evaluate projects completed by students in various classes. This girl created an amazing art piece depicting the teenager in my story, showing her thinking about what she would do when the war ended, and she could go back to living her life. The student gave a short presentation about the piece, and how she was inspired by both my story and the story of another girl in similar circumstances. The entire time she spoke, I just stared at her artwork and listened to her, quietly kvelling.

I later learned that her art was entered in a city-wide contest focused on art depicting the Holocaust. The contest was sponsored by the Dallas Holocaust and Human Rights Museum and had entries from high schools all over the DFW Metroplex. While this student’s art didn’t win, it was one of very few chosen as a finalist. This is the sort of thing that inspires me. This is why I tell these stories.

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