"Why don’t I have grandparents?”
An innocent question, asked decades ago by a nine-year-old boy playing on the beach in Knokke, Belgium.
The answer came through tears – his mother, Rosa Bauernfreund (née Reinhold–Fuhrer), barely able to speak through her grief, managed only: “They were killed in the war.”
Fast forward to April 27, 2025. That same boy – Sonny Bauernfreund, now a great–grandfather – stood on Zurenborg Street in Antwerp, watching as brass Stolpersteine (stumbling stones) were embedded into the pavement outside his grandparents’ former home.
With a touch of irony, he reflected, “We’ve come here to remember the people whose names are inscribed on these stones – but we do not remember them because we never knew them.”
Surrounding him were 51 relatives – descendants of those murdered – who traveled from across Europe, Israel, and the United States to witness the installation of 19 brass memorials. Each plaque bears a name. Each name, a life ended at Auschwitz.
The silenced history of two families
Noa Shashar, family historian and granddaughter of survivors Moshe Reinhold-Fuhrer and Taube (Toni) Schiff, opened the ceremony by recounting the family’s history – a familiar narrative of displacement and wandering.
“Our ancestor Abusch,” she began, “was born in Gorlitz [Germany] in 1878 and married Cilka Bergmann in 1904. When authorities introduced discriminatory regulations forbidding Jews from selling alcohol, the family, who operated a tavern, sought a new beginning elsewhere.
Abusch arrived in Antwerp in 1910, with Cilka and their four young children following later, hoping for a future without persecution.”
Belgium’s welcoming attitude toward refugees and the country’s booming diamond trade drew many Jews, and by the outbreak of World War II around 66,000 were living there (35,000 in Antwerp). By 1940, the Reinhold-Fuhrer family had put down roots in Antwerp.
Though not wealthy, Abusch and Cilka created a warm, happy home filled with their six children, grandchildren, and many friends.
Then the war came.
Nineteen lives extinguished: A family nearly erased
On September 29, 1942, Abusch and Cilka were among thousands of Jews brutally torn from their homes and taken to the Mechelen transit camp. From there, they were deported to Auschwitz and were murdered shortly after their arrival.
Within months, four of their children, alongside their spouses and children, followed the same tragic path. From what had once been a large, close-knit family, only Rosa and Moshe survived.
Toni’s brother Mojzesz, sister-in-law Rywa, and their two children were also deported to Auschwitz. Miraculously, their 17-year-old son, Toshek, survived three harrowing years in the camps. Upon returning to find his entire family gone, he was immediately embraced by Toni and Moshe as one of their own.
Three generations later, his children – Dominique, Anny, Maurice, and Isabelle – stood among the crowd, honoring the memory of his murdered parents and beloved sister, Lunia.
The memorial also honored Rahel and Paula Katz Gleicher – young sisters who had fled Leipzig after Kristallnacht and found refuge in Antwerp. There, they were fostered by Izak Gleicher and Ester Reinhold-Führer.
Tragically, their safety was short-lived. On August 28, 1942, all five were arrested during the Groenenhoek raid and deported to Auschwitz. None returned.
Stumbling over memories: The Stolpersteine project
The Stolpersteine project, conceived by German artist Gunter Demnig, has grown into the world’s largest decentralized Holocaust memorial, with more than 110,000 brass stones embedded in sidewalks across 1,900 European cities.
Each 10-cm. cube is placed at the last freely chosen residence of Nazi persecution victims, ensuring that those destined for erasure will be remembered in the flow of everyday life.
In Antwerp, dedicated volunteers have placed 262 stones in eight districts where Jewish residents lived before deportation. “Each house represents a story interrupted,” explained a volunteer. “These stones bring those stories back into the physical fabric of the city.”
A family restored: From 19 lost to 52 strong
When Shashar, with her aunts Annette Hochstein and Vivianne Meshulam, began the Stolpersteine family project, they sent a simple invitation to extended family members. Little did they imagine that 52 relatives, spanning four generations and three continents, would eagerly respond to the call.
“This is the largest family commemoration we’ve ever facilitated,” remarked an astonished volunteer from the local Antwerp task force.
Behind the ceremony lay months of painstaking research. Shashar pieced together fragmented lives using faded police registers, deportation lists, and the precious testimonies of survivors, each recovered detail helping to transform faceless data into human beings with stories.
“It became my personal mission,” she said, ”to give them back a name and a place. To ensure they would never again be forgotten.”
Nineteen names, five homes: A family reclaims its history
The family procession wound through Antwerp’s streets, stopping at five former residences. At each site, Stolpersteine were placed, family members spoke, played was music, yahrzeit candles were lit, and the mourner’s “Kaddish” prayer was recited.
For 21-year-old Rosa Boyd of London, the ceremony stirred deep emotions. Recounting scattered details about the unclear fate of great-grand uncle Jacob, she said, “I’m told that Grandma Rosa waited for him for years after the war, hopeful he would return. But he never did.”
This writer, Debbie Friedman, spoke about her namesake, Miriam Hinde Reinhold-Baumgarten, who had tried to flee to the US with her husband and two young children.
While a visa was within reach, passage out of Europe proved impossible at the time. Within months of receiving the American consulate’s letter advising them to secure steamship tickets, all four were murdered in Auschwitz.
Dominique Schiff performed a Yiddish song about a man transported back to memories of lost childhood upon hearing an evocative melody played by a street musician. “Play it again,” he repeatedly urges the musician – a refrain that brought many in the crowd to tears.
At another location, Viviane Meshulam played Shaul Tchernichovsky’s “Ani Ma’amin” (“I Believe”) on the saxophone as her daughter Clil explained: “My great-grandmother Toni loved this song, which speaks of belief in humanity and hope for a better future. How incredible that she remained optimistic after everything she endured.”
As the haunting notes floated down the street, curious neighbors emerged from their homes, and what began as a family memorial turned into a community affair – an occasion to honor lives brutally taken during atrocities that some of these newer residents never knew had occurred outside their doors.
‘We have no graves – but now we have stones’
For many, the ceremony brought long-overdue closure.
“Our parents rarely spoke about the relatives they lost,” said Annette Hochstein. “Though I grew up in Antwerp and must have walked past these homes hundreds of times, my father never mentioned that his family once lived here. This might be the first time any of us have said ‘Kaddish’ for them.”
For Debbie Friedman, her ancestors’ suffering became a source of purpose. “Growing up, it was clear to me that I would live in Israel – it felt like the most fitting response to what my grandparents endured,” she said. “I’m incredibly blessed to be living a reality our ancestors could only have dreamed of.”
Yossi Bauernfreund spoke about restoring dignity to the murdered. “Yad vashem means ‘a memorial and a name’ – this is a small but deeply significant act of respect for our ancestors.”
Sonny Bauernfreund recalled his mother’s lifelong silence. “She refused to return here after the war,” he said. “We have no graves to visit. So these stones will commemorate them. They will speak for generations.”
As the family dispersed, returning to homes across continents, the stones remained: quiet, gleaming reminders embedded in Antwerp’s streets, testifying that these people lived, were loved, and will never be forgotten.
