THEODORA KLAYMAN: My name is Dora Klayman.
I'm a Holocaust survivor and Museum volunteer.
I was born in January 1938 in Zagreb, Yugoslavia,
a country cobbled together after World War I.
It was a country of differing historical alliances,
several languages, and various religions.
By the eve of World War II there were within Yugoslavia
serious ideological and political disagreements,
and one of the results was development of
an ultra-nationalist group, the Ustashe.
The Ustashe advocated withdrawal from the Yugoslav coalition
and the establishment of a nationalist Croatian country.
When the Ustashe failed to win enough votes in the elections,
they turned to terrorist tactics.
Following the German invasion of Yugoslavia in April 1941,
and with the support of Germany, the Ustashe assumed leadership
of the so-called Independent State of Croatia.
Hardly independent, it was a puppet government of Nazi Germany,
eager to persecute anyone who was not aligned with
them politically or was not Croatian and Catholic. Specifically,
that included Communists, Roma, Serbs, and Jews.
My maternal family members lived in Ludbreg,
a small town in the north of Croatia.
My grandfather, the town's rabbi,
had served the Jewish community there for many years.
Our family had a very cordial relationship
with a predominantly Catholic population,
and for the 40 years that my family lived there,
there were practically no antisemitic incidents.
My aunt Giza and her long-time close friend
Ljudevit (Ludva) Vrancic, a local bank director,
had all but decided not to marry.
However, fear of the German invasion of Yugoslavia changed their minds.
The hope was that Ludva's Catholic identity
would protect Giza from persecution.
By June 1941, just a few months after the Nazis marched into Yugoslavia,
my parents and infant brother, Zdravko, were arrested.
My father was deported to the Jasenovac concentration camp
and my mother was sent to Stara Gradiska, a subcamp of Jasenovac.
Neither survived.
Fortunately, my little brother was saved by our housekeeper
and brought to Ludbreg, where I had been staying with my extended family.
My brother and I were first sheltered by our grandparents, but by 1942,
nearly the entire Jewish community of Ludbreg had been deported,
including my grandparents and the majority of my family members.
All were soon killed in Jasenovac. We were left behind
with my aunt Giza and her Catholic husband Ludva.
In 1943, Ludva was arrested on suspicion of supporting
the partisan resistance movement and was sent to Jasenovac.
In his absence, my aunt Giza was denounced,
arrested, and deported to Auschwitz,
where she died from illness shortly after arrival.
During this time, my brother and I were
hidden by our Catholic neighbors,
the Runjaks, and we pretended to be their children.
Most people in Ludbreg knew we were Jewish, but they never denounced us.
Sometime later, Ludva was released along with other political prisoners.
Fearing the worst and having been warned that the local priest
made threats toward us while we were with the Runjak family,
my brother and I were baptized for added protection.
After liberation, we waited in vain for our family members to return.
Knowing that our parents would not return, Uncle Ludva adopted my brother
and me and we sought to rebuild our lives in what became Yugoslavia.
The Nazis and the Ustashe killed hundreds of thousands of people
they identified as "the other,"
people they decided did not have the right to exist.
The history of the Holocaust,
my history, highlights the precariousness of the persecuted
peoples and the power of individuals,
even whole towns, to stand up and do what is right,
even in extraordinary times.
It also reminds us that people can rise and fight political oppression,
but it takes more than just an internal uprising to achieve
victory over a powerful and ruthless government.
Tragically, we all know that hatred, even genocide,
did not end with the Holocaust.
What became my country after World War II,
Yugoslavia, experienced yet another genocide in more recent times.
We continue to witness, in many parts of the world, silence in
the face of persecution based on religious or ethnic identity.
Or - we profess despair but do little or nothing to help.
We must not remain silent;
we must all lift our voices in pleas and in protest,
in calls for action to create a better world
and to work to make Never Again a reality.