Mother’s Day and the Forbidden Topic of My Youth

My mother, Hanne Rose Bromet, was rescued from Nazi Germany at the age of 9 in 1934.

Her parents sent her on a ship to America—with her 11-year-old brother, Alfred—among the first of what later would become known as the One Thousand Children (actually 1,400). They were Jewish kids saved from the Nazis, with the help of private social-services agencies (not the U.S. government, by the way).

They arrived at Ellis Island, like so many others for whom this country was a refuge like none other.

My mom’s parents—my grandparents Emil and Margrit Bromet—would be murdered eight years later at Auschwitz, along with their daughter Lisalotte (15 when she died). It’s not a story I’ve especially wanted to share before, but now things feel a little different.

My mom died long ago, in 1969, at the age of 44. She would have turned 100 next week, on May 23.

Hanne Rose Bromet Hartmann

This Mother’s Day, for the first time, I want to share a piece of her story because it’s uncomfortably relevant to the times in which we are living. It’s a story about numbness and about trauma.

You see, anything and everything related to my mother’s journey was a forbidden topic of my youth. I was as close to my mom as any kid could be (an only child, to boot)– but I never heard her speak one word about the tragic past – and the parents, sister and other family she had to leave behind. Not one word.

I can only imagine now what Mother’s Day must have felt like to her. I don’t remember that coming up either.

But my mom ended up having a great life with my dad and our family and friends—and I’ve had a better one than I deserved—so don’t take any of this as self-pity. What’s hitting me today, like never before, is that too many people in this country are experiencing what she did – or at least what she felt.

The numbness.

We are numb to the pain of others for whom Ellis Island no longer holds the promise it always had before. We are numb to what mothers and fathers and daughters and sons are going through—not only the victims of rabid mass deportation threats, but so many more for whom the wanton destruction of due process threatens to translate into pure terror.

For no good reason, we now live in a country in which millions of our citizens—and yes, non-citizens—live in abject terror about what their government, our government, might do to them in service of feeding rage against the “others.” Yes, rage and irrationality. Certainly not thoughtful policy.

And for too many people who are typically caring and empathetic, the times in which we are living cause them to turn their eyes away. Again, the numbness.

What I remember most about my mom was kindness, which, she showed —unconditionally—to me and to everyone with whom she came in contact, until she died. I have a feeling it’s not coincidental that she had experienced some of that when she arrived as a traumatized little girl of 9.

Our country doesn’t feel kind right now. And I have a feeling my mom would finally be willing to talk about that were she here today.

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