This piece is part of our Wit­ness­ing series, which shares pieces from Israeli authors and authors in Israel, as well as the expe­ri­ences of Jew­ish writ­ers around the globe in the after­math of Octo­ber 7th.

It is crit­i­cal to under­stand his­to­ry not just through the books that will be writ­ten lat­er, but also through the first-hand tes­ti­monies and real-time account­ing of events as they occur. At Jew­ish Book Coun­cil, we under­stand the val­ue of these writ­ten tes­ti­mo­ni­als and of shar­ing these indi­vid­ual expe­ri­ences. It’s more impor­tant now than ever to give space to these voic­es and narratives.

Over the Passover hol­i­day this year, I released a children’s book that tells the sto­ry of my grandfather’s life. The book, My Zayde is a Super­hero, chron­i­cles the expe­ri­ences of Ernest Roth­schild, who served in the US Army in World War II after flee­ing per­se­cu­tion for his Jew­ish faith in Nazi Germany.

My grand­fa­ther passed away when I was only five years old. My mem­o­ries of him are hazy, cob­bled togeth­er images and fleet­ing moments — a seder here, a birth­day there — and undoubt­ed­ly influ­enced by the sto­ries that have been told to me over many years. He nev­er dis­cussed his mil­i­tary ser­vice, and rarely dis­cussed his expe­ri­ences in Ger­many in the late 1930s. But amid a surge in anti­semitism and a grow­ing num­ber of young peo­ple in the Unit­ed States doubt­ing the verac­i­ty of the Holo­caust, I felt com­pelled to return to what I knew was a sto­ry of resilience and unusu­al courage in the face of great evil. 

A man who stood amidst the shat­tered glass of Kristall­nacht in Frank­furt in 1938 would stand in the ruins of Adolf Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest in Bercht­es­gaden in 1945. But in an Amer­i­can uniform.

Short­ly after my grand­fa­ther passed away, about a month after I had last seen him, I came to believe I was respon­si­ble for his death. 

To this day, I can­not under­stand how or why I believed I was at fault. I had no rea­son to think I had any­thing to do with the mat­ter, the cause of death hav­ing been pneu­mo­nia and late-stage lung can­cer. Still, there I was, lay­ing in my child­hood bed, going to sleep at night, feel­ing painful­ly, shame­ful­ly guilty that I had some­how offed my grandfather. 

Author’s grand­fa­ther in the ruins of Adolf Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest

I nev­er said a word to any­one about it, and, with time, I would come to under­stand that these thoughts are com­mon in chil­dren. Psy­chol­o­gists call it mag­i­cal think­ing,” the idea chil­dren have that they are some­how at fault for hor­ri­ble tragedies. 

While mag­i­cal think­ing is a cause of unnec­es­sary strain in chil­dren too young to under­stand mor­tal­i­ty, the belief that there are forces beyond our under­stand­ing that guide us, and pos­si­bly even con­nect us to those who have passed beyond, are more typ­i­cal­ly accept­ed, though per­haps mag­i­cal in their own way. 

And so a few days after Octo­ber 7th, I was think­ing of my grand­par­ents when a light, a table­side lamp, turned on in my room. The sud­den bright­ness was star­tling. The lamp had only a turn knob. It seemed an unknown force made itself, or them­selves, present. 

The anti­se­mit­ic protests that plagued the Unit­ed States and the world in the wake of Octo­ber 7th had already start­ed. The bru­tal­i­ty of Hamas’s ter­ror was fol­lowed, infu­ri­at­ing­ly, by the erup­tion of vir­u­lent and long-sim­mer­ing, but thus far social­ly unac­cept­able, hatred of Jews.

In this con­text, I was deter­mined to con­front the surge in anti­semitism in the ways I could. My thoughts returned to my grand­fa­ther, a man who had not been, so to speak, a Jew with trem­bling knees.” 

My grandfather’s com­mand­ing offi­cer in WWII had writ­ten a book about their ser­vice, describ­ing, at one point, my grandfather’s awe­some but under­stand­able” hatred of the Ger­mans. As a child liv­ing in pre­war Ger­many, he had been beat­en up by anti­se­mit­ic thugs who felt pow­er­ful mak­ing anoth­er per­son suf­fer. You hear echoes of this twist­ed cru­el­ty in the taunts hurled at Jew­ish col­lege stu­dents, and in the glee of the Hamas fight­er brag­ging to his father: Look how many I killed with my own hands! Your son killed Jews!” 

My grandfather’s fam­i­ly moved from Pfungstadt to Frank­furt in 1934 hop­ing that the anonymi­ty of the city would pro­vide some pro­tec­tion. His father, unable to con­tin­ue his busi­ness, took a job wash­ing clothes at the Jew­ish hos­pi­tal. And it was while walk­ing to his job, in the ear­ly morn­ing dark­ness of Novem­ber 10th, 1938, that my great-grand­fa­ther saw the syn­a­gogues burn­ing in a rag­ing fire, engulf­ing the city in black smoke. 

My grandfather’s moth­er was a force as well, coura­geous and calm amid the increas­ing­ly vio­lent com­mo­tion of that Novem­ber pogrom that would come to be known as Kristall­nacht. (She had pre­vent­ed an ear­li­er arrest of her hus­band, star­ing down the cocked rifles of Ger­man stormtroop­ers.) She quick­ly told my grand­fa­ther and his younger broth­er to hide in the Jew­ish hos­pi­tal with their father. 

On the after­noon of Novem­ber 11th, they returned to their apart­ment with­out my great-grand­fa­ther, who had been dis­cov­ered and arrest­ed at the hos­pi­tal. At home, they found unimag­in­able destruc­tion. Plumb­ing fix­tures had been ripped from their fit­tings and piles of shat­tered glass and bro­ken memen­tos cov­ered the floors. Their pet para­keet, whom they had patient­ly taught to speak, lay still in its cage. 

It was in this moment, I believe, that the Nazis, in their attempt to burn to death the Jew­ish spir­it, in fact ignit­ed the flames of a soul on fire, blaz­ing with­in Ernest Rothschild. 

As soon as my great-grand­fa­ther was released from Buchen­wald, report­ed­ly due to his WWI mil­i­tary ser­vice, my grand­fa­ther and his fam­i­ly fled to Hol­land and then to the Unit­ed States. My grandfather’s high school stud­ies were ini­tial­ly com­pli­cat­ed by his par­ents’ now impov­er­ished con­di­tion and his lack of Eng­lish pro­fi­cien­cy; but he learned quick­ly and in a short time, joined the US Army. He com­plet­ed ini­tial train­ing in Macon, Geor­gia, before mov­ing on to Class 10 at Fort Ritchie, Maryland. 

In the Catoctin Moun­tains, not far from Camp David, he joined many oth­er Ger­man Jew­ish refugees, with per­son­al sto­ries sim­i­lar to his own. These sol­diers trained in psy­cho­log­i­cal war­fare, inter­ro­ga­tion tac­tics, and ene­my mil­i­tary orga­ni­za­tion, also known as Order of Bat­tle.” The details of the secret pro­gram, declas­si­fied rel­a­tive­ly recent­ly, still remain large­ly unknown to the pub­lic, but the so-called Ritchie Boys,” who dis­persed through­out the Army after they com­plet­ed train­ing, are respon­si­ble for col­lect­ing an esti­mat­ed 60% of action­able intel­li­gence in the Euro­pean theater. 

About a month after Octo­ber 7th, on Vet­er­ans Day 2023, I drove a few hours from Wash­ing­ton D.C. to Fort Ritchie, Mary­land, to see where my grand­fa­ther had trained. The serene grounds seemed a stark con­trast to the hor­rors of war that await­ed the brave men who once slept in the bar­racks there. At the time, I knew my grand­fa­ther had served in Army intel­li­gence and that his name was list­ed in the back of a book on the Ritchie Boys, but at the fort we would be able to check his ser­vice num­ber definitively.

On that Vet­er­ans Day, the sky was gray and over­cast. As we approached Ritchie, a sin­gle beam of light burst through the clouds and illu­mi­nat­ed the gate. I found him, I thought. He was here.

After Ritchie, my grand­fa­ther made his way up through North Africa, Italy, France, and on to Ger­many. It was in Ger­many that his com­mand­ing offi­cer would note a cer­tain smol­der­ing in his eyes, but I imag­ine it was always present, fuel­ing him at each cam­paign, at every stop, dur­ing every mis­sion. In a let­ter, he would describe his delight at pulling a Nazi out of bed at sev­en in the morn­ing on a Sunday. 

Author’s grand­fa­ther in a graveyard

His fel­low sol­diers doc­u­ment­ed their jour­ney, cap­tur­ing, in a pho­to, my grand­fa­ther stand­ing in a grave­yard, his hands on his hips, star­ing at a cul­pa­ble look­ing Ger­man. My grand­fa­ther had dis­cov­ered a Jew­ish ceme­tery had been des­e­crat­ed. Those involved shook from top to bot­tom,” he wrote, but I was so furi­ous.” Sergeant Roth­schild arranged for imme­di­ate repairs and told the may­or to cut the ceme­tery grass too.

In his birth­place of Darm­stadt, not far from the myth­i­cal hill­tops of Franken­stein Cas­tle, he would learn that his child­hood home had been occu­pied by a high-rank­ing offi­cial at IG Far­ben, the com­pa­ny that made the gas cham­ber chem­i­cals. A young lady, not know­ing who he was, told him the house was destroyed in an air raid in 1944 on, of all days, his birth­day. What a coin­ci­dence,” he observed. 

And in near­by Pfungstadt, he would find a teacher who had warned of the Nazis’ worst inten­tions. The teacher, who had not seen him in eleven years, rec­og­nized him imme­di­ate­ly. Before my grand­fa­ther could iden­ti­fy him­self, he went to the kitchen and retrieved a pho­to­graph of a young boy, Ernest Roth­schild, not­ing he had looked at it just that week. Nev­er would the teacher have imag­ined that this lit­tle boy would turn up on his doorstep only days lat­er as an Amer­i­can sol­dier. But, there he was

Anoth­er coin­ci­dence in the shad­ows of Franken­stein Cas­tle, per­haps. A teacher’s instincts of a student’s arrival. A house shield­ing evil destroyed on the birth­day of its tar­get. A light turn­ing on with­out the switch. A beam through the clouds at the right moment. Mag­i­cal thinking. 

At the cli­max of My Zayde is a Super­hero a scene unfolds that shows a fic­tion­al­ized ver­sion of anoth­er real pho­to­graph tak­en by my grandfather’s fel­low sol­diers. The pho­to shows him stand­ing amidst the ruins of Hitler’s liv­ing room in his favored hide­away at Eagle’s Nest in Bercht­es­gaden. The peaks of moun­tains are vis­i­ble in the back­ground, and his feet are sur­round­ed by rub­ble. He is strong and tri­umphant in an Amer­i­can uniform. 

On that tow­er­ing cliff­side in 1945, my grand­fa­ther looked out over the land that was once his home, hav­ing suf­fered unthink­able loss and endured unimag­in­able fear. Here, my grand­fa­ther arrived not only as a sur­vivor, but as a fight­er, a hero not only in action, but also in spir­it. In an eagle’s nest rose a phoenix, one who would not be made to lie still in his cage, born in flames, ascend­ed from the ash­es, fueled by a soul on fire.

Th author as a child being read to by her grandfather

The views and opin­ions expressed above are those of the author, based on their obser­va­tions and experiences.

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Aman­da J. Roth­schild is a nation­al secu­ri­ty expert and for­mer senior offi­cial at the White House, Nation­al Secu­ri­ty Coun­cil, and State Depart­ment. She is the author of the first children’s book on the Ritchie Boys, My Zayde is a Super­hero: The True Sto­ry of an Amer­i­can Jew­ish Boy Who Sur­vived and Fought Back.