Nazis tried to deport my father – let’s stop it from happening to immigrants here

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My father, Arno Penzias, was born the same day as the Gestapo: April 26, 1933. 

The Gestapo, the Nazi secret police force, became famous for its brutality and for the terror it inflicted on German and European society as it enforced Adolf Hitler’s policies. My father, like every person born in Munich, Germany that day, received two birth certificates, one stamped by the Bavarian administration, and one stamped with the Nazi insignia. 

My father was lucky – his family found refuge in England and America, which saved him from the Holocaust. I often lean on my family story and memories in my work at Temple Beth El in Aptos. As a rabbi, my job involves having empathy, helping those in need, sustaining people struggling with life-changing moments and crises of faith. 

In our community, we, too, have immigrants and refugees, people fleeing oppression. We also have foreign students, who came here to study because our universities are world-renowned. 

That is why I vehemently oppose the federal government’s current anti-immigrant stance and why I believe the work happening in our community to protect and educate people about their rights is so important. I am particularly thinking about this now, as Jews across the world prepare to celebrate Passover from April 12-20. 

Yes, we desperately need immigration reform. I understand that people are frustrated and feel our borders lack control. But, the authoritarian tactics our government is deploying to kick people out, the use of plainclothed, masked immigration officials who handcuff and whisk people off in broad daylight, is unacceptable, as is the propaganda that demonizes both immigrants and those who help them. Anyone who remembers life under fascism knows this is how it begins. 

That’s why we all must be concerned. 

My father had a happy childhood – riding his tricycle, taking trips to the country in the family car, running up and down from the balcony of Munich’s Reichenbachstrasse synagogue every Saturday. At first, life under the Nazi regime seemed normal. When he was about 4 years old and saw Hitler Youth conducting marching drills at the riverbank park, he asked his mom when he would be old enough to join. He wanted to wear the uniform. 

As a little boy unaware of the rising anti-Jewish sentiment, he made the mistake of proudly pointing out the family synagogue when they passed it on the bus. His mother, my Oma, was so frightened by the hostile looks they were getting from the other passengers that she whisked him and his younger brother, my uncle Jimmy, off at the next stop, and they walked home. My father silently got the message that he had done something wrong by announcing he was Jewish.

My great-grandparents had come to Germany from Poland. In late October 1938, when my father was 5, he and his brother and cousins, and all of his relatives were among the 17,000 Polish Jews arrested and deported by train to Poland. Poland, like Germany, did not want them, and when they got off the train in Poland, these families, including children and elderly, were detained at the border in harsh, cold weather. Many died of exposure. Fortunately, by the time my father’s train arrived, Poland had closed the border and his train was turned back.

My father was in Munich for Kristallnacht, the night of Nazi-organized violence against Jews on Nov. 9, 1938, and remembered it as “a real wake-up call.” Jewish leaders from the Munich community were arrested without charges and held at nearby Dachau, which at that time was a military prison camp. Soon, it became an infamous death camp, where at least 30,000 people were killed.  

During Kristallnacht, notable community members, including most of the chevra kadisha – the Jewish burial society that ritually bathes and shrouds the deceased prior to burial – were the first to be taken prisoner. 

My grandfather and his brothers then stepped up to take over as the interim burial society. They would meet the trains of released prisoners from Dachau and accept the bodies of the dead. When they received bodies, they contacted families and buried the dead according to Jewish ritual law. They also nursed those who were sick, starving and injured, and helped them return to their homes.

The way my father told the story, it is easy to understand why so many Jews did not leave at this point, when they still had time. They thought it wouldn’t last. But my grandfather had seen the evidence and heard stories of Nazi brutality firsthand from the released prisoners. This prompted his  desperate search for ways to get his family out.

In the spring of 1939, just before his 6th birthday, my father became one of the 10,000 children rescued by the Kindertransport, a British plan to save refugee children across Nazi Europe. The word “kinder” means children in German. His parents – my grandparents –  put their two beloved little boys on a train, each with carefully packed suitcases and a bag of candy. They tried to hide their emotions as they told my father to take care of his 4-year-old brother. 

It was the only way my grandparents could save their children’s lives. Eventually, after many ordeals, they were reunited. But at the time, they could only hope that their own plans to get out of Germany would work. Most of the children on the Kindertransport never saw their parents again.

In 1939, the Nazis were still happy to let the Jews leave, but they needed someplace that would take them. Most places – including the United States – didn’t want them.  

This week, Jews across the world will be celebrating Passover, which begins Saturday night. That means we will be sitting around a table, eating ritual foods and telling the Jews’ story of liberation from slavery in Egypt. At its core, Passover is a refugee story. 

During the meal, known as a Seder (SAY-der), we hold up matza (unleavened bread) and say, “Let all who are hungry come in and eat.” 

This ritual affirms the importance of sharing and welcoming those in need: acknowledging all people as beloved by God. 

We put this important value into action when we help those who need it, when we support immigrants and asylum seekers, as so many in our community do. I’m proud of the work Temple Beth El’s Social Justice Committee does and of our collaboration with numerous community groups, including Santa Cruz Welcoming Network and the COPA interfaith network.  

I have a newspaper clipping from 1939 with a photo of my father and his brother waving to the Statue of Liberty as their ship pulled into New York Harbor. They were the fortunate ones. A friend of my grandfather’s who was already in the U.S. had worked tirelessly to help them secure the necessary immigration papers. My family was saved by immigrating to America. That is why I love the United States – a nation built by refugees and immigrants.

When my father was awarded the Nobel Prize in physics in October of 1978, both the local Munich newspaper and the national German newspaper ran articles celebrating my father as a laureate born in Munich. What contributions to our country are we losing with our deportations?

I believe our nation has currently lost its way. We are enacting policies and practices that terrify me.

But, we must fight to keep our values. We must not give up. Rather, we must redouble our efforts to uphold America’s promise of hope, freedom, and opportunity for those seeking a new life. This is the promise that my father, who had just learned how to read, found etched on the Statue of Liberty.

Rabbi Shifra Weiss-Penzias is a rabbi at Temple Beth El and holds an honorary doctorate from the Hebrew Union College Jewish Institute of Religion. She is currently working on a book about rethinking religion for our times.