As a girl, I grew up hearing many stories told by Mom and Dad of their underground activities in Amsterdam, The Netherlands, during World War II.  Mom's father was Jewish but he escaped the war's horrors since he died a natural death in 1941.

     Mom and Dad (Helena and Roelof van Zyl) chose to take risks of all kinds.  A niece, brother-in-law, and uncle found refuge in their small, upstairs, two-bedroom apartment, followed by friends, a tailor and his wife, and many Jews who sought temporary shelter in their home until permanent hiding places could be found for them.

     The greatest shock of my life occurred when I was 18 years old and Mom and Dad told me that I was "adopted," Jewish, and that my biological parents had died in Sobibor.  After the war, adoption was not possible, so the van Zyls were appointed my legal guardians.

     I had grown up as a van Zyl, raised as their own daughter, not knowing I had been in hiding with the others in their apartment.  Those stories included me!

     Mom died in 1967.  I did not look for my roots until I was 40 years old.  Maybe I was afraid of rejection, and perhaps I thought I would hurt the van Zyls' feelings by looking for members of my own family.  They not only wanted to protect me from anti-Semitism but also were fearful that I could be taken away from them since I was not legally adopted.

     Finally, I traveled to Amsterdam's City Hall to research documents and found many aunts and cousins.  When I met them, it felt as if I'd known them my entire life.

     In 1986, Dad told me he had seen an article in USA Today which stated he could apply for honorary Israeli citizenship.  It turned out he was applying for the status of "Righteous Among the Nations," the highest honor bestowed on a Gentile by the State of Israel.  Written testimony was provided by survivors, including me, and in 1987, Dad (and Mom, posthumously) received the honors they so rightfully deserved.  Since then, Dad has received many honors and recognitions, acknowledging me during his speeches, causing me to deal with my Jewish roots, which until then had been carefully "hidden."  I appreciate his efforts in urging me to explore my roots.

     I decided to take Dad to Israel for his 80th birthday so he could actually be honored at Yad Vashem.  After much searching, I found a retired attorney who agreed to fund my project as long as I did all the administrative work.  This enabled 27 other Righteous Gentiles who live in the United States and Canada to go to Israel for a week in April 1991 to be honored at Yad Vashem.  As for honorary citizenship papers -- Dad (and Mom posthumously) received them just in time for his 80th birthday!

     A second group of 19 Righteous went in August of the same year, men and women in their 70s and 80s, who have been cited for their role in rescuing and hiding Jews during the Holocaust, but who were too humble or could not afford to travel to Israel to be honored.

     As for me, I have been involved in The Hidden Child movement ever since I attended the First International Gathering in New York in 1991.

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