A Holocaust survivor's aliyah story: Survival, rebuilding and healing

This month, my husband’s grandfather made a decision that changed how I think about courage, home, and what it means to be Jewish.

“I’m never scared,” he said to us recently – a statement that referred as much to the Nazis who destroyed his childhood as to the current war in Israel – and knowing Papa, I believed him completely.

TO UNDERSTAND why Papa’s aliyah feels so significant, you need to know his story. Now known as Jerry Stein, Papa was born Gedalia Dan in the small town of Majdan, Czechoslovakia. He was 14 when the Nazis arrived. His family lived near his father’s store, and they had good relationships with their non-Jewish neighbors– until one morning, when good relationships couldn’t protect Jewish families anymore.

At Auschwitz, Papa received the number 8640 tattooed on his arm. He survived by staying close to his father and brother, by working whatever job the Nazis gave him, and by whispering the same prayers for survival every night and morning.

He watched his mother and siblings disappear into the gas chambers, and when his father was mysteriously “missing” one day, Papa realized that he too had been murdered by the Nazis. But somehow, Papa survived until liberation.

At 16, Papa wanted to fight in Israel’s War of Independence. His sisters in New York, who had survived the Nazi death camps themselves, had other ideas—they’d lost enough family already. They bought him safe passage to America instead, where he built the life his murdered parents could never have imagined for their son.

But America, it turned out, was a way-station, not a final destination.

This past summer, our family watched as Papa’s New Jersey home was emptied – over 70 years of American life sorted, sold, given away, or packed for the journey to Israel. What struck me most was Papa’s matter-of-fact approach to leaving.

As always, with Papa around, it was like having an extra light around the house. His glowing white hair and shining blue eyes reflect something deeper: an inner calm, a spiritual radiance, a deep knowledge of what’s important in this world.

This quality guided him through the moving process. I witnessed no dramatic goodbyes to familiar rooms, no outward anxiety or tears. Just practical actions, tying up loose ends, as straightforward as everything else about Papa.

We were more emotional about saying goodbye to Papa’s house forever than Papa seemed to be. That’s when I understood something essential about him: Papa doesn’t waste energy on sentiment about places. He saves it for people.

The real catalyst to move to Israel came when his daughter Sharon and her husband Dovid (my parents-in-law) decided to make aliyah themselves. Suddenly, four generations of Papa’s family would be in Israel: children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren building their lives in the Jewish homeland.

I remember thinking it was remarkable. Here was a man who had survived Auschwitz, built a successful life in America, and now, at 96, he was packing up his entire existence to move to a country where sirens interrupt dinner and mothers send care packages – not to sleepaway camp, but to their sons fighting in Gaza.

But Papa had a different perspective entirely. He had already lived through the worst thing that could happen to a Jewish family. As a child, he had watched loved ones disappear into the gas chambers, survived on sawdust bread, and went to bed every evening with the deep knowledge that he might not make it through the night. After that, what’s a war?

THE RENOVATION of Papa’s new apartment in Jerusalem happened with almost miraculous timing. With the help of his devoted daughter and son-in-law, everything fell into place with suspicious ease. Contractors showed up on schedule, materials arrived when needed, and the view seems designed specifically for him.

From his window, Papa will see all the energy and chaos of Israeli life below in beautiful Sacher Park. Children playing soccer, families picnicking, people exercising and walking their dogs, someone practicing tightrope walking. Sometimes, the army uses the park for training exercises, because in Israel, that’s just normal life alongside everything else.

When Papa first walked into his apartment, I knew exactly what he would say: “It’s good, it’s good,” in that understated way of his. Or maybe the view is “unbelievable” in his faint Eastern European accent. At 96, he still approaches every new experience with genuine appreciation.

Papa’s apartment is directly above the Jerusalem preschool where my daughter works for her national service – completely unplanned. She’ll visit him after work regularly, of course. Our family lives 20 minutes away. My husband’s sisters and their families are nearby. His cousin, whose oldest son served in Gaza alongside my own son Eitan, lives in Jerusalem with his family.

Papa’s stationary bike made the journey to accompany him to his home in Israel. He still exercises every day, which puts the rest of us to shame. True to his matter-of-fact nature, Papa isn’t particularly attached to possessions, though he brought his polo shirts and blazers and eight decades of memories.

My mother and father-in-law made sure there was a loaf of gefilte fish waiting in his apartment when he arrived – Papa’s favorite food, something familiar for his first few lunches in Jerusalem.

What Papa left behind was the luxury of safety and his grandchildren in New Jersey, who are already talking about the remote possibility of following his example.

Those relatives in America are struggling with Papa’s absence. There are seven great-granddaughters, just between my husband’s siblings in New Jersey, little girls who grew up climbing onto Papa’s lap, who knew they could count on him for birthdays and holidays and the thousand small celebrations that make childhood magical.

But here’s what I’ve learned about Papa: he doesn’t make decisions to avoid pain; he makes them to pursue a purpose. And his purpose, at 96, was to be present for the next chapter of Jewish history, to follow his daughter and son-in-law to the holy land, whatever that might look like.

I remember a visit to Yad Vashem with his grandchildren; Papa standing with my son Eitan and his soldier cousin Yossi, both in uniform. Papa was clearly extraordinarily proud. Here, in this place of all places, his very own great-grandsons were tough, uniformed Jewish soldiers. It was a picture I’ll never forget – the way Papa looked at them, the quiet satisfaction in his expression.

“I never thought I would see antisemitism like this again in my lifetime,” Papa has said recently, his voice carrying the weight of someone who has watched this movie before. The college campus protests, the attacks on synagogues, the casual antisemitism creeping back into polite conversation. For Papa, it’s not shocking because it’s unexpected. It’s shocking because it’s so familiar.

PAPA’S ALIYAH isn’t just a story about an old man moving to be closer to family, although that’s part of it. It’s not a story about someone choosing Israel over America, although that’s part of it too. It’s a story about someone who lived through the worst of Jewish history and decided to bet on the best of Jewish possibility.

In 1948, when Israel was fighting for independence, 16-year-old Papa wanted to join the fight. And now, at 96, Papa has finally made the choice that his older sisters lovingly dissuaded him from making long ago. He’s coming home to fight – not with weapons this time, but with his inspiring presence, his life, his refusal to be afraid.

Upon his arrival, 30 family members gathered at Ben-Gurion Airport to welcome Papa home. There were signs and balloons, flowers and flags ready to greet him. Most importantly, Papa was thoroughly happy when every child, grandchild, great-grandchild, and great-great-grandchild showed up to cheer him on. He loves nothing more than family.

Stepping through those doors from baggage claim, Papa looked exactly as he always does: neat, tucked in, put together, and radiating that inner light. That guy can sleep anywhere, so I doubt the long flight affected him much.

He smiled gently in his way while his many grandchildren and great-grandchildren kissed and embraced him.

He danced along while we sang the aliyah welcoming song, “Veshavu Banim.” And when the moment felt right to him, he started pushing the luggage cart toward the car because he was ready to get going – he probably shouldn’t be pushing a heavy cart at his age, but he did anyway, because – well – that’s Papa.

Now, I can imagine us walking together for years to come in Sacher Park, Papa sitting on a bench while ultra-Orthodox children run around nearby. I picture his smile increasing as he takes it all in, maybe saying “unbelievable” as he watches Jewish children playing safely in a Jewish park protected by Jewish soldiers.

How can a 96-year-old who has been through so much leave his comfortable home to completely start over? It’s astounding to think of him beginning afresh at this point in his life. He has no apparent qualms about moving to Israel during wartime. His actions are an inspiration for anyone who struggles with personal fears that get in the way of what they believe to be right.

At 96, in the middle of a war, Papa is finally home. Watching him approach this new chapter with complete calm has taught me something essential about courage: When you’ve already lost everything that matters once, everything after that is bonus time. And bonus time, Papa shows us, is best spent surrounded by family in the place where the Jewish story began.

Some stories are worth finishing in person.