Do Not Repeat Catastrophe

A psychologist friend of mine, Dr. Susan Statland, once told me, "The glass is full, Max. It would be best if you let something out. You have to write it down."

For years, I put off taking her advice. I had always talked to and asked other people questions, hoping to resolve some of my issues and tame the monsters that lived—and still live—in my nightmares. But, as much as I tried to come to grips with my past, I could never record the painful story of my life.

Instead, I dwelled little on the past and, instead, chose to focus on the present and plan for my future. I believed that my success depended on my ability to compartmentalize my feelings about the past for so long. As a result, I ran a successful global trading business, and I worked with over 200 factories in more than 20 countries, five flower stores, and two Chinese fast food takeout restaurants. In July 1989, Corporate Reports included my company on its list of 100 successful companies. I traveled the globe constantly and ensured that each of my workers received fair pay and had a decent place to live and eat.

The two most influential and significant people are my wife Lenore for over many years and my G-D every. Friday night do the blessing for candle lighting, cover your eyes with your and recite the appropriate prayer. And by claiming—and demonstrating—that everyone is equal before G-D, they inspired their followers "to reach out in love —and without fear"—to all kinds of people.”

My wife Lenore, manager of the export of automobiles. I was proud of my financial accomplishments, but I was also pleased with my personal and humanitarian achievements. I was active in religious institutions worldwide and always did my part for the welfare of others. I never turned down an opportunity to donate to a good cause. Each year, I presented the clothing samples I made for several large companies—some 500 summer and winter jackets, shoes, hats, and sport shirts—to the Salvation Army. In acknowledgment of my donations, the Salvation Army gave me a dozen golden kettles over the years. I also made donations to nuns and missionaries who cared for the mentally ill, former prostitutes, refugees, sick, and the abandoned.

And the convalescent. I volunteered to run soup kitchens and many other charitable services. I also supported educational programs in synagogues and volunteered for fund-raising programs, including tree-planting throughout the world.

As part of my charitable efforts, I became deeply involved in sports activities across the globe. I had become the Sports Commissioner of Greater Kansas City and was one of the significant souvenir suppliers of the 1984 Olympics in Los Angeles. In addition, I owned a soccer team in Juárez, Mexico, and sponsored tennis teams in Europe and the United States.

As traditional Jews, my family had always given at least ten percent of our income to charities. In earlier days, traditional Jewish homes and Jewish synagogues always had a pushke, a box used to collect coins for charity. So I felt grateful—and more spiritual—whenever I could perform tzedakah and help the less fortunate.

But as Dr. Susan Statland had told me, my "glass" was still half-full. Although I felt I was still healthy and full of energy, I had become apprehensive about the future of my business. After years of work, I hoped to retire and pass my business on to my partner, Mrs. Sherry Tshang, and two of my sons. However, none were ready to take full responsibility for my business operations.

Sherry Mrs. Sherry Tshang, my right hand and the brain behind my company, MASH, had encountered both personal and financial setbacks. Sherry's son had some out-of-control adolescent problems, and Sherry had to spend more time with her children, a boy and a girl. Over the years, she had put her portion of the company profits into the Taiwanese stock market and had invested in the operations of her brother's wife's family, leading real estate holders. However, her investments went downhill, the Taiwanese stock market crashed, and real estate took a dive.

My oldest son, Elliott, was the manager of China operations at my company, and he was making baseball caps for Adidas and other sports teams. Alan and my wife Lenore, manager of the export of automobiles, my youngest son was still at the University of Kansas

Only I could run the business, and I did so until I ran out of steam and retired to Costa Rica,

where life moved at a slower pace. In Costa Rica, I was finally able—and willing—to reflect on the events of my past and to begin "emptying the glass," as Dr. Statler had recommended. For years, I had put off taking her advice.

I had already retired when I spoke with Mrs. Tshang for the last time. She told me that a baseball cap manufacturer was planning to open a new factory in Morristown, New Jersey, and she wanted to start another partnership with me. I felt terrible that I had to turn her down, but I knew that life on the East Coast would be costly with car insurance and the high cost of living.

My Story

After the Jewish liberation, I was puzzled about the Allies' role in the Holocaust, but nobody wanted to discuss that issue anymore. I wondered what had become of the valuable property the Nazis had lifted from the homes of my deported relatives in Holland. Why had so little been returned, and why so few seemed to care. So many people had worked so hard to eradicate the Jews. Sometimes, these issues would seem to prickle away in my mind without even consciously thinking of them. Other times, I would lie awake and try to understand what had happened during those awful years.

When I could sleep at night, I would often startle awake from terrible dreams, not unlike the monster nightmares I had had when I was five. But now, I saw the endless drawn faces from the Hunger Winter. And I saw my close relatives now dressed in those loose, gray, striped pajamas, marching off to the gas chambers. Things I had never completely understood when they were happening now reverberated in my dreams.

I even felt ambivalent about being Jewish. Until I was eight years old, I had spent much of my life running from the Nazis, who had tried to destroy my family and thousands of other Jewish families. By the end of the war, Jewishness seemed to be more of a liability than an asset. And having already spent a good portion of my childhood living among Gentiles, I wasn't sure if being a Jew was something I needed or wanted to pursue. Maybe it wasn't worth the trouble.

But hearing the heroic stories of my fellow Jews helped me reconsider my Jewish faith, if not my faith in humanity. I learned of Jews whose religious convictions had accompanied them throughout their lives, from near-death and back again. No Jew who heard their stories could turn his back on that identity. These heroes had journeyed through concentration camps, torture, and misery and had lived to tell about it. That restored my faith. I would be a Jew.

However, I still had not come to terms with the more significant political issues surrounding the war. The further those times slipped away, the more remote the war experience became. And the less I could do to respond to my feelings, the more rage I felt at the complete and magnificent injustice of it all. There was no proper place to put that rage except to keep it inside.

Life went on. There were ordinary moments of happiness and sadness. But the stress I carried inside never left me. I became prone to unexplained anxiety attacks. If ever a war documentary came to light and I heard the voice of Hitler railing on the radio or the ominous thud of relentless German boots marching, it would send me into a cold sweat.

Then, in 1995, something happened to me. At the age of 58, on the fiftieth anniversary of the Allied Liberation of Holland, I returned to Amsterdam, where I spent some time with my brother, Ido. I walked through a quiet, pretty neighborhood just east of the Amstel river, along the Nieuwe Keizersgracht canal. When I came to the building numbered 56, I paused. I knew this house. The lady who lived there happened to be out sweeping her steps. Our eyes met, and I had to explain why I was staring. Much to my surprise, she cordially invited me inside.

Walking through that house was an almost mystical experience. It was now the home of strangers, but every room was uncannily familiar to me. The front balcony was gone, and all the paintings, antique furniture, and silver were gone. But it was still very much a space I knew. With every stair, I ascended and every corner I turned, I knew just where I was going. With some trepidation, I asked to see a second-floor back room, which I knew had at one time been used as a workshop. There, I looked out one of the windows and saw a name etched into the window glass with a diamond cutter's tools: Eliazer Gompers.

Eliazer Gompers was my grandfather. He was murdered at Sobibor, on April 2, 1943, along with his wife, Rebecca. The Gompers family had kept precise financial records in banking. The descriptions of Uncle Philip E. Gompers, who was also murdered at Sobibor, show that their money was stolen, both before and after they were murdered.

The walk through my grandfather's former home triggered long-forgotten memories and stirred my old anxieties about the war. But I realized that my childhood and my early experiences in America were part of a continuum that helped me overcome the lingering doubts I had after the war over the years.