On this day, Father’s Day, I can’t help but wonder about Otto Frank, seen above in conversation with Millie Perkins, the leading actress in the 1958 film about Anne.
How did Mr Frank celebrate Father’s Day? I know he remarried and had a stepdaughter. However, I am sure he adored his stepdaughter—Eva Schloss—there weren’t any blood ties.
Every Father’s Day, Otto Frank would be reminded of the murder of his two daughters, more so than on any other day except for birthdays.
As a father, I cannot imagine my life without my children. Even now, when they are slowly making advances to build their own lives, it will not be too long before the nest is empty, and I already have difficulties thinking about that.
Otto Frank must have found comfort in the words his daughter, Anne, wrote in her diary. Nevertheless, the pains surely would still be real as ever. Otto Frank wasn’t the only father who survived the Holocaust without his family—there were others.
I also reminded myself about David Friedman and his story. It is not just a story of dealing with horrors from the Holocaust but also a story of a second chance with hopes despite immense grief and hardships.
David Friedman lost his family during the Holocaust. He remarried after the war. From that marriage, another daughter was born, Miriam Friedman. (In 2020, I had the privilege to interview his daughter.)
To finish this article, I would like to give my thoughts about being a father.
A father isn’t a title—it is a job. For man, it is most likely, the most challenging responsibility a man can have. You are the protector of your children, although this is often impossible to do. You want to be the perfect human being, but you can’t—no one can. The most important gift you can give your children is love and give it plentifully. If your children don’t hate you at some stage, you haven’t done your job right. This hate isn’t a prolonged hatred—it often only lasts a day,
For all those fathers who saw their children led to the camps—I will pray for them and their children on this Father’s Day.
This blog is about my Dad because it is Father’s Day.
There is so much I could say about my Dad, and yet there is so little. For a long time, he had not been a part of my life—18 years, to be precise. Especially in the last years of those 18, I started to feel hate for the man. That hate turned into bitterness, and at that stage, I realized I had to do something about it. I was just married, and my wife deserved better than to have a bitter man.
I found out where my Dad worked in a restaurant in Valkenburg, the Southeast part of the Netherlands, and it was a few miles from where we lived. My wife and I, although she was still my girlfriend at the time, went to Valkenburg and sat down on the terrace of the restaurant where he worked.
I have to admit I was impressed to see him at work. He was carrying six meals, balancing three on his left arm and three on his right arm. It was like watching an artist at work.
Father did spot us. He came over and offered us a drink. It was a bit strange situation, awkward even, so we left after we finished our drinks.
A few months passed, and I decided to contact my Dad. But as is often the case, fate beat me to it. In early January 1996, my paternal grandmother died—she was a woman I didn’t know. My Father called me and asked if I would accompany him to the funeral. I chatted with my wife and siblings, and we decided to go, especially—because our Mother gave us the blessing to go.
At the funeral, I could not feel but sorry for the man who I recognized as my Father. We had a chat afterwards and said we would meet again but had not set a date.
Alas, fate hit again and on 26 January 1996, my Mother suddenly passed away. This time it was my Dad’s turn to come to the funeral. My Mom was very loved by friends and neighbours which was evident at her funeral because the church was packed. There were even people outside, my Dad was in the hall of the church.
When we walked out, he was there with his arms wide open, ready to embrace us.
The tragedy of my Mom’s death was also the moment that rekindled my relationship with my Dad. There were a few more unfortunate events though, both my wife and I were hospitalised, I in March and my wife in May of 1996. This however strengthened the bond between my Dad and I. He also ended up in hospital a few weeks later. So 1996 was a turbulent year for the family.
What copper-fastened our relationship was the fact that one day my Dad visited me at home, we had a good chat and he asked me for forgiveness for the mistakes he had made. To me, this was a very brave act, because I just didn’t know how I may react to that. I also noticed that maybe I lost track of him, he definitely kept track of me, and he even knew the grades I got for my school exams.
In 1997 my wife and I immigrated to Ireland, just to make sure that she would be close to her parents. At that stage air travel between Ireland and the Netherlands had become very affordable, therefore, it would be possible for me and my Dad to visit each other whenever we wanted.
Our relationship grew stronger and stronger. I had come to understand my Father, his Dad was killed during World War II when my Father was still only very young, he was only 5 at the time. So he never really got to know his own Dad, and he never had a Father-Son bond with his own Dad. How could I hold a grudge, knowing this? I couldn’t, was the answer.
Despite having a few health scares he held on, Alas in 2015 he passed away. It was Father’s Day 2015 that was the last time I saw him and talk to him. This time we used modern technology, we had a chat via Skype. Little did we know then that so many would similarly celebrate Father’s Day in 2020 and 2021. due to the Covid 19 pandemic.
Six days later, he died.
Father’s story did not end there. He was cremated on 2 July 2015. The following day, my siblings and I decided to go to his birthplace, Maastricht, to celebrate his life. When we were there we saw that Andre Rieu would start a week-long of concerts, starting that day. We thought that this would be the perfect way to celebrate Dad, but we also knew it would be impossible to get tickets. We tried all the surrounding restaurants at the Vrijthof, where the concert would be held, they offered a dinner and the concert.
All of the restaurants said ‘no’ the tickets had been sold out for months. For some reason though, the last place we tried also said no, but he also he would try to get something sorted for us. He told us to come back just before the concert would start, but we were to come via the back entrance of the restaurant, We did as we were told and the man had arranged a table for us on the terrace, so we could see and hear the concert and also enjoy the meal. I thanked the man and explained to him why we were there that day. That must have touched him because when we wanted to pay, the waitress said there was no charge. We felt that moment our Father looked out for us.
Happy Father’s Day to all the Fathers out there. Enjoy it and make the most of it because you don’t know what tomorrow brings.
To most of us,including me Joseph H. Hercker is just a random name. But to Joan Hercker it is the name of her Father. A man who sacrificed his future Father’s days so that others could celebrate theirs.
He was born 2 July 1918,Philadelphia,Pennsylvania.
In February 1945 Joseph Hercker was stationed in France
As a member of the Crusader Group, andflew 16 combat sorties between February 6 andApril 3, 1945, in the European Theater of Operations.
On April 3, after completing a”medium” bombing mission of marshalling yards
at Hameln and Holzmeinden in central Germany,his plane was separated from the rest of the formation in overcast weather.
It is not clear what happened, but when the formation broke cover there was no sign of his aircraft, and it never made it back to base. Joseph Hercker and the pilot, William Norlund, an only child from Vineland, were Killed in Action. Hercker was
buried first in Ittenbach No. 1, Germany,eventually his wife was asked if she wanted him brought back to the States or buried in the Netherlands.
Hercker parents thought she had been through enough already, so his final resting place is at the American war cemetery in Margraten, the Netherlands.
Dear Sir I thank you and salute you. Your sacrifice and bravery has bought my freedom. I pledge that I will use this freedom keeping your memory and the memories of your brothers in arms alive.
History of Sorts 
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