Lore Baer -- a Hidden Child During the Holocaust -- Speaks to the 8th Grade Students

Hi. I'm Lore Baer, Ezra Potter's grandma, who's in your school. I understand some of you have read my book "Hiding from the Nazis" by David Adler. If you did, some of what I say today may sound familiar. I plan to read my speech, please understand. I'll speak for about 15 minutes, and then open the floor for questions by you.

For generations people have been persecuted and victimized, because of color, religion and cultural differences. Sometimes we see a glimmer of hope.

I am a survivor of religious persecution. I am Jewish and a Holocaust survivor.

Today I want to tell you that individuals make all the difference in the world. Three families were responsible for saving my life and the life of my mom and dad. Without them, I would not be alive today and have such a beautiful family of children and grandchildren.

My father and mother left their families in Germany when they were in their 20s in order to escape from Hitler. They moved to Holland not knowing a word of Dutch. My father quit the business he wanted to join, and started a butcher shop with a friend. His own father was a butcher, but he wanted to go into a different field. It was not to be. Not only did he become a butcher like his father, but his partner died from a massive heart attack soon after the business started, and so, my dad was responsible for our family of four as well as for his partner's wife, child and grandparent.

I was born in Amsterdam shortly after my parents settled there. We led a very normal life. Our home was warm and there was always good food and fun. I played with my friend Harold who lived with us. All seven of us lived together in one house a short distance from my father's butcher shop. While my parents worked there I stayed at home with my Opa, who took care of me.

Holland was attacked by Germany in the early 40's and started taking over shops, homes and rounding up Jews, and making anyone over six wear the Jewish star. When these roundups began, the atmosphere in our home changed completely. My parents' voices changed little by little, till they were such a hushed whisper I could only make out my mother's tears. Whenever they saw me they smiled and acted phony - I knew something was up. They listened to the radio non-stop. Strangers came in and out of our home constantly. Often Germans came to our door and my father always managed to appease them, either by bribing them with money or meat from his shop. Eventually his shop was closed by them. Special favors were difficult to come by.

One day the Gestapo came. I'll always remember this, because I was standing next to my grandpa at the time. They demanded he pack one bag of clothing, nothing else. My mother was hysterical, and screamed at them, not letting go of his hand. I never even kissed him or said goodbye. I never saw him again. I found out many years later that he was killed at the Bergen Belsen concentration camp.

After my grandfather was taken away nothing was the same. We all lived in constant fear that we would be next. My parents realized that they had to go into hiding. One day my parents told me they would have to send me away for a little while. The day I was separated from my parents they told me to FORGET YOUR NAME, FORGET YOU'RE JEWISH, FORGET US. My mother told me to always be a good girl. I never asked them where I was going or why, or when I'd see them again. I didn't want to make them angry. I didn't want to act like a baby. I wanted to be a good girl. I was very confused. I thought my parents didn't love me anymore. Why else would they send me away while they stayed together. I felt scared, lonely and helpless.

Through the butcher shop my father befriended a variety of Dutch people. He was equally comfortable with janitors and presidents. When our survival was at stake he called on their help. Among his friends was a well to do interfaith couple, Else and Sam Izaaks, who took me into their home. They kept me for a short time, until Else became afraid of what the neighbors said; Who is that child? Where did she come from? She was scared because her husband was Jewish, and terrified that I would cause problems. Sam took me by train to Hoorn, an old historic town 50 miles north of Amsterdam.

I was then brought to a farm by two young men on bicycles. What would they do with me? I later learned that one of them was also hiding on the farm he was taking me to, in order to avoid being drafted into the German army.

When I arrived I was scared to death. There were no kids my own age, just a lot of grown-ups. They talked Dutch so fast and looked at me with curiosity. I felt so out of place and lonely there. Everything was overwhelming. I'd never been on a farm, being born in the city. Everyone asked me a million questions. I wondered if they knew my parents, and if my parents knew them. The answer was no.

The only person I immediately liked was Cornelia, a 25-year-old woman. As I found out recently, she was the one who convinced her family to take me in because she loved children and wanted to help and do the right thing. She smiled at me and took my hand and showed me around. She slept in the room with me, hugged me and made me feel safe. I could cry and be sad with her. She was pretty and gentle and liked me. She took personal responsibility for my physical and emotional well being during the two years I lived with the Schouten family. Once a week she made me write postcards to my parents, pretending to mail them. She taught me to milk cows, churn butter and bake.

Her father, Pa Schouten, was a dairy farmer, who supplied milk and cheese to much of the village of Oosterblokker. The Nazis demanded the farmers turn a certain quota of goods over to the German army but Pa always managed to skirt their directive. He was extremely stubborn and proud. Sometimes he declared that the cows had a disease, other times that deliveries had already been made.

Once, an informer told the Nazis that Pa Schouten had not complied with their demands so he was picked up from the farm and transported to Amsterdam. I still remember how we felt when he left with the Gestapo. We were sure he would never return. While in Amsterdam he was forced to read the list of other Dutchmen who had not complied with the Germans, but he pretended he couldn't read. It was his composure, gall and good fortune that saved his life and probably the lives of his family and mine.

The Schoutens harbored more than 30 people during the war. Some were young men resisting joining the army. Others were homeless men and women needing safe haven or food for brief periods. No questions were asked. They tried to do the right thing.

There was a famine in 1944 bringing countless Dutch families by bicycle and on foot from the big cities to exchange money, china, jewelry, furs for food. Here was an opportunity for many farmers to make money. My rescuer family refused everything, and gave if possible.

While with them for two years, I was treated like a member of the family. I hated the name Lore Kruk, that had been given to me. I begged to use the name Schouten. Eventually they agreed. I was overjoyed. My hair color was dark brown, not blonde like most of the Dutch kids. It was not questioned because Pa Schouten was often called the swarte, meaning the black haired one. I went to a private Catholic school everyday and to church every Sunday with the family. I was never baptized or christened, but I was confirmed with the other girls. On a recent trip to the school with my grandchildren I was reminded what a warm accepting place it was and still is. There is a large photo of my hiding family and me on the wall.

Every day I wondered if I'd ever see my parents again. I was afraid to ask in case the answer was no. So I toughened up. I decided I wasn't going to miss them.

I lived a fairly normal life compared to other hidden children I've spoken to. However, there was a constant threat of airplanes, autos, motorcycles and informers. Unusual crowds signaled imminent danger. Cornelia told me that everyone lived on edge. There was a trap door in the barn that led to a covered room in the hayloft-part of the house. Sometimes we were rushed into the room and had to be completely silent until the Gestapo, who we could hear above us, left. It was terrifying. The thought I might sneeze or cough and give the hiding place away made me so upset. When Cornelia found out how scared I was she would try to take me by bicycle to her sister's house down the street. Doing this in front of the Nazis actually caused less suspicion.

In Oosterblokker there were other families harboring resisters and Jews. There was an unspoken agreement to help each other. There were many Nazi sympathizers, even in this small town, so no one was safe. My parents, as I found out after the war, lived in constant fear of being discovered. After moving from one place to another, they found a wonderful, but poor couple with a teenage daughter, who shared their small 12x12 house with them. For one year they ate together, slept together, cooked, and talked. Their daughter was never allowed to bring a friend home because of endangering my parents. They had to wait until dark to use the outhouse.

When the war finally ended in 1945, my parents found me immediately. They lived only 10 miles from me, which neither of us knew. I had a very difficult time leaving the wonderful family that I grew to love in the two years I spent with them. Each year on my birthday I went to visit Cornelia and the Schouten family. Many years after we came to the United States, I reunited with the family again. Now it is a family tradition to take my grandchildren to Holland when they are 10, to visit the farm where I was hidden, and the school that I went to. Cornelia died several years ago, but we keep connected through the children and grandchildren. Both my rescuer family and that of my parents are honored at the Holocaust Museum in Washington and at Yad Vashem in Israel.

It has been 65 years since my hiding experience and I am still having difficulty understanding why these people, complete strangers, risked their lives for ours. They have been asked numerous times, by interviewers for film, TV, radio, and their answer is always the same. "How could we do otherwise." On Cornelia's gravestone is written "If you save one life, you save the world".

Thank you for your interest and attention.