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‘I’m fragmented, and a surviving remnant’: The story of Westerbork prisoner 8331
As prisoner 8331 at the Nazis’ Westerbork transit camp in Holland, Jacob Boas must have witnessed the sorrow and fear of hundreds if not thousands of fellow inmates before they were loaded onto cattle cars and sent to die at Auschwitz.
But he has no memory of it. Jacob Boas, a Dutch Jew, was born in the camp on Nov. 1, 1943, and was captive there until he, his parents and older brother along with 876 other prisoners were liberated by Canadian troops 18 months after Jacob was born.
There’s nothing that Jacob, or Jack, as he calls himself now, remembers of those 18 months.
“My earliest conscious memory is in postwar Amsterdam. I must’ve been around 2 or so because I was stuck in a high chair, the coal stove started smoking, and my mother came rushing in from the kitchen for the rescue,” Jack told me.
Each week during the war, a train of cattle cars delivered Westerbork prisoners, including Jack’s grandparents and other relatives, to die at Auschwitz or Sobibor. A total of 102,000 Dutch Jews were killed in the Holocaust, and many of them came through Westerbork, including Anne Frank.
Jack, his brother and their parents beat the odds through sheer luck: a camp commandant at Westerbork who had a policy of not immediately deporting mothers in late pregnancy, and a father with tailoring skills.
“The fact of being born in the transit camp has struck deep, impenetrable roots within me, coupled with a seemingly unslakable need to know,” Jack wrote in a book published two years ago, Until Further Notice … Theresienstadt On My Mind.
As a historian and author of six books, four of which deal with the Holocaust, Jack has spent his adult life trying to satisfy that need. He has also taught university courses on the Holocaust and writes magazine pieces.
I met Jack at a second-hand bookstore in Portland, Ore., where we both live. He works there every Monday as a volunteer. Jack is a self-effacing man, the kind who listens more than he talks. He’s not apt to come right out and tell you that he is a victim of the Holocaust. Jack’s story has come to me in segments, as we discovered we had a common obsession — German history. And the more we talk, the more intriguing his story becomes.
A false sense of security
Jack and I were having coffee at a Portland cafe when he showed me a photograph of a 1944 registration card from Camp Westerbork. It bears the names of his family: parents Barend and Anna, Jacob and his brother Marcus.
“Wife’s pregnancy exemption canceled because the child was born on Nov. 1, 1943,” states the typewritten card.
The camp commandant, Jack explained, had a policy regarding pregnant women that might seem merciful, but was not. Women in their third trimester were exempted from deportation until six weeks after giving birth, along with their husbands and children. This was part of a larger camp charade. Living conditions at Westerbork were not as bad as other camps. There were soccer matches, chess tournaments and concerts, and inmates wore their civilian clothes instead of concentration camp pajamas, so that prisoners would have a false sense of security before they were sent east.
The trimester “exemption” was one of two cards that had been protecting the Boas family. The other was Barend’s skills as a tailor. After their arrival at Westerbork, Barend was put to work in the camp’s tailor workshop, and later at the Nazis’ headquarters in The Hague.
In 1944, the family learned they were going to be sent to Theresienstadt concentration camp in occupied Czechoslovakia, which — although the Nazis presented it as a model camp — served as a feeder camp to Auschwitz. But they never got to Theresienstadt. Canadian troops liberated Camp Westerbork on April 12, 1945.
The family began putting their lives back together in Amsterdam. Barend started a tailor shop. Anna was a seamstress. They moved to Montreal in 1957 because they had no living relatives left in the Netherlands and because of two events portending war: the Suez Canal crisis and the Soviet invasion of Hungary.
Jack got a BA in history and political science at McGill University in Montreal, married a McGill student and followed her to the University of California, Riverside, where he earned his PhD in European history. His dissertation was about German Jews living under Hitler from 1933–39. Research for his dissertation led to his first book: Boulevard des Misères: The Story of Transit Camp Westerbork.
Jack’s parents didn’t talk much about Westerbork. This was not unusual for Holocaust survivors. They just wanted to get on with their lives. But Jack loved tracing the lives of people in the past, including his relatives. It became the mission that shaped his life.
Survivor syndrome
As I was having coffee with Jack, he talked about his eight-year struggle to get financial compensation as a Holocaust survivor from Dutch authorities. Jack filled out the application in February 1979, and later sent a separate document pertaining to his physical and mental health.
Compensation requests were processed by Dutch authorities under a victims’ benefit act known by its Dutch initials, WUV. A WUV representative went to Jack’s San Francisco apartment to question him, which was followed by interviews by a psychiatrist hired by WUV administrators.
Reports written from these conversations said Jack suffered from “major identity issues,” struggled with depression, implied he was lazy and irresponsible, and noted that his marriage had failed. But the WUV psychiatrist said he was unable to “relate his (Jack’s) symptoms or his cognitive or identity issues directly with his family experience or with his wartime experience.” One report made the ludicrous assertion that approving Jack’s application for compensation would place “a heavy burden on the Dutch budget.”
So Jack’s application was rejected.
The WUV-hired psychiatrist was not a specialist in the problems of Holocaust survivors. Jack hired one who was, who concluded that Jack showed symptoms of “survivor syndrome,” which he listed as “repeated feelings of persecution, long-term depression, problems with authority, intense anxiety, displaced rage and aggression and obsession with the Holocaust.” Another psychiatrist engaged by Jack said Jack was suffering from “significant repercussions the camp experience had on him and his family.”
Jack’s application for compensation was finally approved in 1984.
It is important to note here that many thousands of Nazi survivors had to wait decades for compensation, partly due to racist or antisemitic attitudes as well as Cold War politics — including forced laborers, German military deserters, Sinti and Roma, and relatives of people murdered because they had disabilities. Even many Jewish survivors encountered long delays, especially those who fled early, lived in hiding, or lacked the documents postwar officials insisted on.
I went to a talk Jack gave on his latest book, Burden of Proof: Fragments of a Surviving Remnant. “Burden of proof” refers to the ordeal he went through for compensation. The second part of the title refers to himself. “I’m fragmented, and a surviving remnant,” he told his listeners.
Jack’s audience was mesmerized as he told of his lifelong pursuit to understand his identity in the context of the Holocaust — his research trips to Holland, an invitation by the German government to attend the commemoration of a victims’ memorial, his adventures as an extra in a Dutch docudrama about Bergen-Belsen. He is neither maudlin nor angry when he tells these stories. And he frequently jokes about his experiences.
So this is who prisoner 8331 has become: a surviving remnant who is piecing together a life from fragments, and who reminds us that even fractured memory can be an act of defiance.
The post ‘I’m fragmented, and a surviving remnant’: The story of Westerbork prisoner 8331 appeared first on The Forward.
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Why I’m vibing with the pope’s first big statement
I have long been obsessed with the Vatican and the inner workings of the papacy. (I majored and did my Master’s in religious studies.) But usually other people are not as tickled as I am by analyzing the newest theological statements from the Holy See.
Not this week. Pope Leo XIV just put out his first encyclical — the term used to refer to official statements outlining the church’s stance on a topic — and it has gone viral. “Spitting fire right out the gate,” said one of many similar trending posts, as though the encyclical was a rap song.
The topic is buzzy: AI, which the pope casts as one of the greatest threats to human flourishing and morality. (The encyclical is titled “Magnifica Humanitas,” or “Magnificent Humanity” in English, if that gives you the gist.) “Humanity, created by God in all its grandeur,” it opens, “ is today facing a pivotal choice: either to construct a new Tower of Babel or to build the city in which God and humanity dwell together.”
The document notes many of the concrete risks of AI — sexual abuse, distortion of facts, job loss — and calls for pragmatic solutions. But it is, at its heart, a testament to what makes humans human, written with palpable adoration for the people of the world: our creativity, our empathy, even our weaknesses. It’s a declaration that machines can never have the ineffable qualities of God’s children.
Structuring our world around technology, Leo writes, reduces “creation to an object of exploitation and human beings to mere cogs in a system driven toward ever greater efficiency.”
Later, in a paean to the importance of deep thought over easy answers, he goes on: “The speed and ease with which answers or summaries can be obtained risk extinguishing the desire to ask questions,” he writes, calling on the world “to protect our young people from the promise of the perfect machine” and warning against rendering “human thought seemingly superfluous precisely when it is most needed.”
“Magnificatus Humanitas” is a major statement, both in length — more than 43,000 words — and in symbolism. A pope’s first encyclical indicates the issues they believe are most important to the church, and signals the likely direction of their papacy.
That direction, for Pope Leo, is to be a voice for moral leadership, writ large. He addressed the encyclical not only to Catholics or even Christians, but “to all men and women of goodwill,” and cited thinkers like Hannah Arendt and J.R.R. Tolkien alongside the Bible.
It’s a declaration of a new — or, arguably, very old — relevance for religious leaders. As people rush through our increasingly fast-paced, frantic world, striving to keep up with the newest technology or geopolitical shift affecting markets and jobs, the slow-moving, zoomed-out perspective of religious leaders seems to be more and more important.
The Vatican held massive authority both moral and military for much of Western history. But its sway faded in the modern age. As democracy rose, Christianity broke into factions and religion’s prominence weakened, leaving the Church without the same ability to bestow a divine mandate on nations and rulers.
So many modern popes have kept their sights more narrowly focused on the theological. Even Pope Francis, who was a liberal, modernizing force for the church, and spoke out strongly on topics like the environment and immigration, focused three of his four encyclicals on Christian theological concepts like the Sacred Heart and Christianity as the world’s guiding light.
Pope Leo, however, seems to have found his way to modern, secular relevance by speaking out clearly on major issues of the day. He notes that he drew inspiration for “Magnificatus Humanitas” from Pope Leo XIII, an influential pope in the late 1800s and the inspiration for the modern Leo’s own papal moniker, whose 1891 encyclical “Rerum Novarum,” on the economy and conditions of the working class, was criticized for insufficient focus on the Gospel. The current pope’s own document is remarkably concrete and political.
Making political statements isn’t new for Leo, but the encyclical canonizes his boldness into an official form. In the past few months I’ve written about the ways in which Pope Leo has used sermons and statements to directly counter those made by U.S. leaders. After Pete Hegseth made a speech implying the U.S. military is doing God’s will, the pope gave a homily saying that prayers for war cannot be heard by God. He has made strongly worded comments about the rights of immigrants as Trump announced increased ICE raids, and made a point of appointing foreign bishops in American parishes. He has refused to visit the U.S. despite the fact that he is American and has been invited numerous times, including for the nation’s 250th birthday; he is instead planning to visit an island that serves as a refugee landing point in the Mediterranean.
It’s not all that surprising that Leo is making pronouncements on the justness of wars; popes have always given commentary on the world, albeit often less pointedly. Of course, Catholics have always looked to the pope for moral leadership — though that is increasingly under question, as renegade Catholics doubt the pope. (Even J.D. Vance, a Catholic convert with a book coming out about his conversion, has warned the pope to be “careful” with his theological interpretations — a near heretical statement. That’s how Protestantism came about.) The difference today is that everybody is listening.
I think the reason is that there is a certain ineffable quality that can’t be accounted for in so much of modern-day discourse in our metrics-focused world. Everything needs to be provable with a statistical analysis or some quantifiable indicator, or it needs to be as profitable as possible to extract value. But so much of what is most valuable in the human experience is intuitive — experiences and emotions like love, joy, transcendence. Connection with each other. Religious leaders have been honing the language to talk about these qualities for centuries, and they guard one of the only arenas in which the intangible remains central.
Of course, there are also plenty of issues with religious institutions, and the Vatican in particular is famous as a site where abuses of power were hidden and protected. But “Magnifica Humanitas,” and its virality, points toward a new relationship with religion, and a newly important role for it to play.
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking, a hope for my own increased importance as a religion reporter.
The post Why I’m vibing with the pope’s first big statement appeared first on The Forward.
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How can I live freely as a Jew in a world where strangers rip my mezuzah off my doorframe?
Twice, the mezuzah on my front door was ripped off.
The first time, I was shocked. The second time, I made a decision that still pains me. I did not put it back up.
This was before the Hamas attack of Oct. 7, 2023.
That is the part I keep coming back to. The fear did not begin after the Hamas attacks. It was already there, intruding with the quiet calculation of whether a small Jewish symbol on my home made me less safe.
A mezuzah is not a political statement. It makes no argument about a government or a war. It is a sacred object, a marker of memory, a tiny declaration that says: Jews live here. I thought about that mezuzah again recently when the Anti-Defamation League released its annual audit showing that antisemitic physical assaults in the United States reached record highs in 2025. That increase reflects something many Jews already feel in daily life: the slow erosion of ease, the daily calculation of whether to speak up or stay quiet — things I have felt since the first time my mezuzah was violently torn off my doorframe.
Since then, the realm in which I feel safe as a visibly Jewish person has been shrinking from all directions.
After the Oct. 7 attack, the bulletin boards in my apartment building began filling with calls to boycott Israel. Campaign flyers for a Jewish political candidate who came to speak there were defaced with Hitler mustaches. I learned to scan the walls before I scanned my mail.
This was not happening on a campus quad or in some distant place. It was happening where I live.
Then, among my mother’s things, I found a Star of David necklace from the 1930s — marcasite set against black onyx, delicate and old. A boyfriend had given it to her when they were both 14.
I put it on in Florida, where I spend much of my time caring for my mother. I loved wearing it. It felt like more than jewelry. It felt like inheritance, memory, and a small way of carrying my family with me.
But when my mother knew I was going back to New York, she told me to take it off.
My mother is 102. She is not easily frightened. She has lived long enough to know when the temperature in the room has changed. She was not making a political argument. She was trying to protect her daughter.
I still wear that Star of David. But I admit I am selective. In New York, there are moments when I leave it visible and moments when I tuck it under my shirt. That calculation itself tells me something about the world I am moving through.
Recently, in a private Facebook group for women essayists, I shared a personal piece I had written for the United Kingdom-based Jewish Chronicle about how Oct. 7 changed life for my mother and me. It was not a political manifesto. It was a reflection on fear, Jewish identity, aging and visibility.
And still, I was attacked by other writers.“What about Gaza?” I was asked. The message was clear: even my personal Jewish pain had to pass a political test before it could be acknowledged.
That is the narrowing.
This ugliness is coming from more than one direction now. It stems from old conspiracy theories on the right and newer moral certainties in some of the progressive spaces where I once felt most at home. Different language brings about the same result: Jews become less human, less particular, less entitled to fear.
That collapse is what frightens me most: the definitional collapse between Jew and Israeli; Israeli and Israel’s government; Jewish symbol and political provocation; mezuzah and target.
As Jews like me reckon with that collapse, we must reckon with how much we’ll go along with it.
Right now, too often, Jews are being asked to choose between our own safety and our compassion for others. We should be able to prioritize both. I am a Zionist. I believe in the right of the Jewish people to a homeland. I also believe Palestinians are human beings who deserve freedom, dignity, and protection from suffering.
These beliefs should not cancel each other out. They should make us more careful, more humane, more committed to truth.
Yet now we must choose between speaking about antisemitism and being accused of indifference to other hatreds. That is no way to live.
Since Oct. 7, I have found myself going to synagogue on Shabbat, something I never did before. I was a High Holiday Jew. Now I seek out rooms where I do not have to explain why this moment feels frightening. I have learned where I feel seen. I have learned who can hold my fear without turning it into an argument.
The mezuzah I did not put back up is small. It fits in the palm of my hand.
But what it represents is not small: memory, faith, survival, home, and the right to be visibly Jewish without fear.
When I did not put it back up, I told myself I was being practical. But now — after Oct. 7, the bulletin boards, my mother’s warning, and the explosive allegations I’ve seen travel through respected media without sufficient care or verification — I understand it differently.
I was not just protecting a doorframe. I was learning to shrink.
The post How can I live freely as a Jew in a world where strangers rip my mezuzah off my doorframe? appeared first on The Forward.
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Podcast: A lively conversation in Yiddish with actress Lea Koenig
ס׳איז לעצטנס אַרויס אַ פּאָדקאַסט מיט דער באַליבטער אַקטריסע אין ישׂראל, ליאַ קעניג, וועלכע איז הײַנט צום בעסטן באַקאַנט ווי די ייִדיש־רעדנדיקע באָבע פֿונעם פּערסאָנאַזש שלום שטיסל אין דער ישׂראלדיקער טעלעוויזיע־סעריע „שטיסל“.
אינעם שמועס באַטייליקן זיך אויך יניבֿ גאָלדבערג — דער מחבר פֿון אַ נײַער ביאָגראַפֿיע וועגן איר אויף ענגליש; דער איבערזעצער און דראַמאַטורג מיכל יאַשינסקי, און דער ייִדישער זינגער און קולטור־טוער חיים וואָלף. דעם פּאָדקאַסט האָט טראַנסמיטירט די באָסטאָנער ראַדיאָ־פּראָגראַם „דאָס ייִדישע קול“.
ליאַ קעניג גיט איבער אירע זכרונות במשך פֿון איר לאַנגער קאַריערע אין ייִדישן טעאַטער, ווי אויך אינעם העברעיִשן טעאַטער, טעלעוויזיע און קינאָ. כּדי צו הערן דעם פּאָדקאַסט, גיט אַ קוועטש דאָ.
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