Our Path To The Future | A Poet's Tale

OUR PATH TO THE FUTURE

This is the story of my grandparents, on my father's side of the family, and how they managed

to save themselves from Nazi Germany and make their way eventually to Canada.

I wrote this story in the mid nineties, at the time being quite concerned about environmental issues.

During these past thirty years I came to realize that truly changing the world starts within ~ the more peace and harmony we experience within, the more that can spread out into our world to help create a more peaceful, beautiful and harmonious planet.

Enjoy the story.

As I sit in my enclosed porch, my eyes drift through the window to a quiet backyard setting in midtown Toronto. My senses transform the garden into a symphony of life—the melody of the cardinal’s mating call, the deep blue sky, the rustling of leaves from the previous fall, and the sweetness in the crisp air.

The harmony of the present moment feels eternal, yet I know how quickly it passes. Into the symphony creeps an underlying beat—a constant reminder of the reality hidden beneath the beautiful melody. The beat that pierces the beauty is the crisis now facing the human species as a whole. Everywhere one turns, the reminders are there: the expanding hole in the ozone layer, deforestation, contamination of our most basic life supports—food, air, and water. For many, the beat is barely audible, and so they go on living as if the symphony will never fade.

For me, the beat grows louder every day, and so I must act. I recall the story of my maternal grandmother, who heard a beat many years ago, in a different land, facing a different kind of threat to her existence. My grandmother, Edith Berger, who passed away in 2000, left a great lesson on the power of foresight.

On March 16, 1994, my grandmother celebrated her 93rd birthday and inspired me to write about her life—specifically, the story of her family’s exodus from Nazi Germany in December 1935. Every time I remember this story, I am reminded that we must always look to the future.

Born in Vienna in 1901, Edith moved to Berlin shortly after her second birthday. Her first cousin—and husband-to-be—Stephen Berger, moved from Hungary to Berlin in 1919. As a Jew in Hungary, he was forbidden by the government to attend university, so he went to Berlin to pursue his education. They married in 1929, during a peaceful time in European history.

On March 4, 1931, their first son, John, was born. Edith spent much time at home with him, but after a year or so, she felt compelled to work. Responding to an ad in the paper, she contacted a man named George Molder, who was setting up a business cleaning offices. At the time, it was just another acquaintance—but this relationship would eventually lead to the freedom of her family from the Nazi crematoriums.

George Molder (likely not his real name) had been forced into a life of constant movement. A Hungarian communist, he was condemned to death at the age of eighteen by the Fascist government. With the help of friends and relatives, he escaped and knew he could never return. His fate was one of false passports, constant fear, and a wandering lifestyle. Although he had few possessions, he was a genius at creating and opening businesses. His weakness lay in maintaining what he started, and he knew the consequences of an unsuccessful business in a foreign land. So, he reached out for help and friendship.

This partnership led to the first cleaning business of its kind in Berlin. George handled production, Edith managed administration, and her husband became the sales manager. Together they were a dynamic, complementary team. The business flourished; the future seemed secure. At the same time, Edith led a hectic life—raising her first child while pursuing her PhD in Economics at the University of Berlin.

For many people, contentment still reigned in early- to mid-1930s Germany. Few could extrapolate the political situation into what was coming. The faint, persistent beat of the Nazi government was drowned out by the symphony of daily life.

An old Greek story tells how Prometheus, when he made the first humans, gave them the gift of foresight—the knowledge of their fate. But later, he took the gift away, for humans who knew their own fate were too unhappy, too overwhelmed by the shadow of death.

By 1934, only a year after Hitler came to power, Stephen and Edith could no longer ignore the faint beat. It was not a pleasant sound, yet they knew they could not block it out. That same year, Stephen began risking his life by smuggling money to Belgium. If caught, he would have been sentenced to death. The money, hidden in a mangled paper bag beneath his train seat, escaped the border guards’ notice. Meanwhile, George was already in Brussels setting up contacts to open another cleaning business. Perhaps the foresight Prometheus once bestowed upon humanity had indeed trickled down through the ages—its power soon became evident.

In early April 1935, when Edith was seven months pregnant, she sat in the small Berlin office with her husband and their secretary, making business plans. Their discussion was abruptly interrupted by a sharp knock. Two SS guards entered with cruel smiles behind their expressionless faces. The eviction notice they handed over gave them ten minutes to pack and surrender the keys. There would be no further dialogue.

Time slipped quickly by. On June 3, 1935, their second son, Michael, was born into an age of uncertainty. By December, plans were made to move to Brussels. Leaving behind everything they had built—with only a few suitcases, a small sum of money, and two young children—they boarded a plane. Through the small window, as the plane accelerated down the runway, the city of their youth sped by. Their short life of early adulthood passed before them, and soon they would find themselves on a new stage in a foreign country.

Before their departure, they had tried to convince many friends and relatives to emigrate. For many, it was easier to continue their traditional lives than to acknowledge the real threat. A friend who was a lawyer told them, “Hitler will be gone in half a year.” In fact, six months after they left Germany, only the affluent could still escape—through bribes. The foresight of Edith and Stephen was a rare blend of wisdom, courage, luck, and timing.

Upon arriving in Brussels, they reconnected with George, who once again demonstrated his brilliance. The team reassembled, and the business thrived. Since foreigners were not allowed to work, Stephen managed the office secretly, while George used a false passport as a Belgian citizen.

Edith now raised her two sons. She found life in Belgium pleasant and much less stressful. Stephen began playing his violin again, forming a quartet with three other musicians. “They were crazy about their music,” Edith recalled. “They almost forgot about everything else.”

By 1938, Belgium no longer felt safe. George decided to leave, obtaining a visa through bribery and traveling to Portugal—one of the few countries that still accepted Jewish refugees.

Edith knew it was a race against time. There was a short window during which Hungarians (Edith had lost her German citizenship upon marrying Stephen, a Hungarian citizen) could obtain a transit visa through France. Each day she rose at 5 a.m. and stood in line for up to seven hours. On the third day, she finally reached the official. If he had been in a bad mood or simply disliked her, he could have decided their fate. In a moment stretched into eternity, he nodded, signed the paper, and barked, “Prochaine!”—next. Edith clutched the document and hurried home.

It was September 1939. The Germans had invaded Poland, and the war had begun. Edith began packing and preparing her sons for the journey. Stephen hesitated. Edith knew arguing was futile—she had to follow her heart. In December 1939, with their passport and two children, she boarded a train for Portugal, certain Stephen would follow. Her foresight and courage became her compass. As the train sped south, the darkness on the horizon rolled past them—soon to engulf the lives of millions.

Upon arriving in Portugal, Edith saw more clearly the darkness she had fled. She sent their joint passport back to Belgium with a note urging Stephen to join them. As days passed, she worried whether the passport had reached him.

Stephen, the only member of his small orchestra to survive, boarded the next train two weeks later. Fourteen days after his departure, the Nazi army stormed through Belgium.

In Portugal, the family found refuge in a small town called Caldas—a peaceful inland city. Refugees were concentrated there and forbidden to travel or work. They spent their days walking, talking, and watching their two boys grow, while listening to grim reports from across Europe.

In 1942, a ship from the Jewish Agency in America arrived in Lisbon. It had originally been sent to rescue orphans from Marseilles—but upon arrival, the crew learned that the orphans had already been deported to their deaths. Unwilling to return empty, the captain opened the voyage to Jewish refugee families.

Although life seemed peaceful, Edith and Stephen knew better. They decided to send their two sons to America to ensure their survival if the Nazis invaded Spain. It was an agonizing decision, but their only insurance for life itself. John, age 11, and Michael, age 7, boarded the ship and waved goodbye, not knowing when—or if—they would see their parents again.

The boys lived with an adoptive family near Boston for over a year. In 1944, Stephen and Edith finally secured passage to Canada, arriving with fifty dollars in their pocket. Six months later, their sons joined them in Toronto.

In a small apartment on St. George Street, they began once again to rebuild their lives. From the safety of North America, they watched in horror as the tragedies of the Holocaust emerged from the ashes of Europe. In May 1948, they rejoiced at what many saw as the Jewish response to that horror—the creation of the State of Israel.

George remained in Portugal, trapped by his false passport. His stamp business succeeded for a time, but his spendthrift nature kept him in debt. When Stephen and Edith returned from Israel in the 1970s, they stopped in Portugal to visit their friend and savior. The news was devastating—George had taken his own life just days before their arrival. The pressures of his hidden life had finally overcome him.

There is much wisdom to be learned from this story of hope, courage, and foresight. We must live in the present, yet remain conscious of what is happening to our planet. We must shatter the illusion that life will continue unchanged if we refuse to act. Each of us must make changes so that we create a future our children will thank us for.

Today, we stand before two paths. But unlike the roads in Robert Frost’s poem, they are not equally fair. As Rachel Carson wrote in Silent Spring (1962):

“We stand now where two roads diverge.

But unlike the road in Robert Frost’s familiar poem, they are not equally fair.
The road we have long been traveling is deceptively easy—a smooth superhighway on which we progress with great speed, but at its end lies disaster.
The other fork—the one less traveled by—offers our last, our only chance to reach a destination that assures the preservation of our Earth.”

The quality of future life will depend on the path we choose today. We must develop a vision for our future and begin walking toward it.

My grandfather, Stephen Berger, eventually became deeply involved in the Jewish community in Toronto, serving on many committees and raising funds for organizations both in Canada and Israel. In 1974, he was honored as Man of the Quarter Century at a formal dinner in one of Toronto’s largest synagogues.

As I lift my head, my eyes drift once again through the window to a quiet backyard. The leaves are budding now, flowers push through the moist earth—it is a time of great change.

1. Carson, Rachel, Silent Spring. Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston. 1962.