Beth Lane

IT’S 2022 YET TWO-THIRDS OF MILENNIALS AREN’T FAMILIARIZED WITH THE HOLOCAUST.* THEY DON’T KNOW ABOUT THE EVILS THAT OCCURRED TO 11 MILLION HUMANS. THAT MEANS THEY DON’T KNOW THE STORIES OF BRAVERY OF WHICH HUMANS ARE CAPABLE. LIKE THE STORY OF THE SCHMIDTS.

Let’s just jump right into it because I want to know how you discovered that there was this whole family that you hadn’t known about? And did you know this growing up about your mother?

I remember the moment that I learned that my mom was adopted. I was 6 years old. I don’t have any recollection really of when she told me she had survived the Holocaust, she never really used those words. She never used the word “survivor.” She’s never used the word “victim.” You know, any of the more traditional expectations you might have of how somebody would describe their childhood or their history—those words never came out of my mom’s mouth.

I think, at the time, it wasn’t so much a—and I can’t speak for her—a deflection, but more that she had moved on with her life. She had come to this country as an immigrant, as a refugee. Her mother had been murdered at Auschwitz. Her father was not able to get out of Germany. She came over with her 6 siblings and they were placed in foster homes all around the south side of Chicago. And they were separated—which is quite harrowing, considering that they had survived all of this together, only to come to America to then be separated. She was adopted by my grandparents, Joshua and Rosalynd Speigel and was given an extraordinary life, something that, like, you can’t even imagine coming from war-torn Europe, in Germany in particular, to [this] life. Her mother was a painter, artist, sculptor, a fabulous cook, an entertainer, former jazz singer, a milliner. And her father, my Grandpa Josh, was a neurosurgeon and became chief of neurosurgery at Michael Reese Hospital and then became the president of the Neurological Society of America.

Arthur and Paula Schmidt

So, you literally are going from poverty-stricken Germany to moving into my grandparents home. The education they provided her, the comfort, love—not that her parents didn’t love her—but it’s, you know, there’s love in terms of protection and hiding, and then there is love when you’re not hiding. And when you’re taking your kids to the park to fly kites and you’re giving them dogs to play with, and, you know, providing ballet lessons and things like that. So my mother had been brought up to move forward and my grandparents had always said to her, “if you ever want to know about your family, ask us.”

They were open with your mother throughout her life about the fact that she was adopted?

Oh yes. She always knew that she was adopted. She was adopted when she was 6. She was actually given the choice to be adopted as a 6 year-old. How do you even answer that question? You don’t even know what it is. And of course my mom’s older siblings had to go through the refugee sponsorship process with the Jewish Children’s Bureau of Chicago to then go through the process of contacting my mom’s biological father in Germany, getting his signature which legally permitted her to be adopted, because he had no way of getting out. And then you have to post it in a newspaper. So she always knew it, but my mother will tell you that she always felt a tremendous allegiance and loyalty to her adoptive parents, really the only parents that she ever knew. Just the sense of loyalty and obligation to always be grateful and never cause any ruffles. And I think that makes a lot of sense. When you grow up in a country where the government wants you dead, you learn to follow the fold and make no ruffles or alarmist sounds. So she never complained about it.

And in terms of when did I discover that she was a Holocaust survivor? I have a memory of going to Hebrew school; we had started learning about the Holocaust in third grade—so at that point, what am I, 8 or 9 years old? And for whatever reason, I remember knowing that my family was part of this conversation but I don’t know how. Clearly I must have learned it from my mother before Hebrew school, before that lesson plan was taught.

I would say the first time I really started to dabble with the creative process around her story was probably in my late 20s early 30s. I started to write about it. I started to try and write a one-person play to explore and examine my mom’s birth mother, Lina Banda, who was an extraordinary activist for somebody who basically came from the shtetl in Hungary and married a man who brought her to Germany. And, they still lived in relative poverty; they were always on welfare. She was the janitress of her building, that’s how they paid their rent. She was a person who darned socks, but then on the side, she would move people through Berlin. She would go to Cologne, pick people up, and bring them to Berlin to help them secure passports to get out of Germany. So, she was one of these silent, underground people that was doing things that were terribly illegal, not to mention, just being Jewish which was illegal. But it was remarkable. I wish I had more information to share about Lina, about that specific part of the story, but none of us have any documentation. We just have stories from my aunts and uncle.

When I wrote that play, I don’t know, it just didn’t really land—like, it was more therapeutic for me and not so much for the audience. So you put it in a drawer or whatever. And then I pulled it out again in 2015. I had enrolled at UCLA in the School of Theater, Film & Television to get my masters degree in Theater.

One of our first classes [I took] was to devise a piece of theater, to write a piece of theater, for the class. So I took that one-person play and actually made it into a broader play for, like, seven or 8 characters. And again, it felt very self-serving. It just didn’t feel like it had any traction. However, in the summer between my second and third year, my mom decided, after the death of my uncle Alfons—who had written this 40 page document to talk about the family’s history—she decided that she wanted to go back to Germany for the first time. I was like, “Wait, what? You’ve never wanted that!” So we all went. My dad, my sister, my mom, and me. My brother unfortunately, wasn’t able to join us on the trip. But we went to the town of Worin where she and her siblings had been hidden. We were hosted by the town historians. And they had a surprise for us. They invited the grandson of the farmers who hid mom and her siblings to come and meet us.

This was one of those watershed moments that any filmmaker would just kill for. And I literally looked to my left, looked to my right and said, “Where is the film crew? This is unbelievable!” This guy, this grandson, was my brother’s age. It really provided for me the reverse shot of the story. It was no longer the Weber family point of view, it was the Schmidt family point of view. The courage and bravery—which we knew that they had undertaken, but I think seeing an ancestor, meeting an ancestor, brought it home. It was just like this, you can’t even describe the sensation of the feeling. I mean, I know for myself that theoretically had it not been for the Schmidts I wouldn’t be alive today. My kids wouldn’t be alive had it not been for the Schmidts.

But also if the Schmidts had been caught, it’s very likely that they would’ve been killed. It just depends on which soldier caught them and how it went down. So it’s also very possible that this grandson might never have been born. So in that moment, I said, “I am going to make a movie about this.”

I had never felt that the story was mine to tell. I always felt it was my mother’s story to tell, and my aunts, and they just weren’t going to tell it, and I just respected people’s choices. But in that moment I said, “That’s it. This now is my story. I have to take ownership of this because these are remarkable people who need to be honored and celebrated.” And then, just with what’s going on in the world, it’s extraordinary to me that 3 weeks after we came back from that experience and meeting Arthur Schmidt III, Charlottesville [riot] happened. My mom and I talked a lot about that. Like “This is really kind of happening all over again.” That was 2017 and now we’re in 2022, and I am somebody who no longer says that
anti-Semitism is on the rise. It’s not on the rise, it’s here. It’s a fixture. It’s real and it’s dangerous. It’s probably always been here, just kind of hiding underneath the floorboards.

But it is criminal activity and I’m so happy to say that Roberta Kaplan and her team, the legal experts, who are part of the platform of Integrity First for America, just won the first lawsuit against the perpetrators of Charlottesville. She is bankrupting them. It’s fantastic. The legal fees they’ve had to come up with and the damages that they now have to pay. I think it’s in the ballpark of like 25 million dollars, or something, and the only way to really try to address it is to cripple these people financially. The same thing happened with Sandy Hook, with Remington. They’re going in at the financial level. It’s the only way that we can really combat these small entities from being able to galvanize these large troops of people to come in and do this kind of terrible, horrible, vitriolic hate.

That’s how I came about this story. I was enrolled at UCLA. I came running back to campus after that experience and said, “I’m a theater student but you guys got to teach me how to make a movie! You have to teach me how to make a documentary! And on top of that my first film shoot is in March because Yad Vashem is honoring Arthur and Paula Schmidt in the Gardens of the Righteous and I have to be ready to roll!”

Was that the trip that you took that started honoring the Schmidt family?

No. No. In 2008, I think it was, my dad and his wife took my brother and sister, my mom, and all the grandchildren to Israel. We did the big family trip to Israel, and when we were at Yad Vashem, which is the World Holocaust Remembrance Center, my mother and I decided to look up her biological mothers’ name in the archives there. And we began the process really then to make the application. We learned about the Garden of the Righteous Among the Nations, at that time we hadn’t really known about it. So my mom communicated with my uncle Alfons who created the dossier. He’s really the one who created the application, which is a very long and tedious process, to accumulate the proof that somebody should be honored in this garden. The Garden of the Righteous is specifically for gentiles who helped Jews during the Holocaust. The honor was finally bestowed in 2015.

Did the grandson know that his grandparents did this?

It was a surprise to him, that’s honestly what made me [do this]. I’m in this farmland meeting this guy, we’re blown away, and saying goodbye, and he told me a story. This story is personal to him, so I’m not going to share it here. But he told me this story that revealed him to be such an extraordinary pacifist. And I asked him, “How did you have the courage to be that kind of a pacifist? It takes a lot to actually be a pacifist.” Not a bystander, he wasn’t a
bystander, he was a pacifist. And I asked him, “Was it because of what your grandfather did that was taught in your family? Is that how you became such an extraordinarily courageous person?” He said he never knew the story about his grandfather. He [said] he’s quite sure his father never knew the story about his grandfather, and that the first time he ever learned even a shred of this, was when he got a letter in the mail from Yad Vashem.

There’s a fiction film in there! I think about that, like, can you imagine opening up a letter and learning this about your ancestors? I don’t know what the communication was between Yad Vashem and Herr Schmidt, but I think he was quite thrilled and elated, and he did join us in Jerusalem. He did receive the honor on behalf of his family. He is a very special person. It’s very important to him for people to understand that he is not the hero, but he’s accepting it posthumously for his grandfather. He’s very humble.

The Garden of the Righteous is a very special place, particularly for German citizens to be honored. There are over 27,000 names engraved on the granite walls. But Arthur and Paula Schmidt were the 600th German names. So of 27,000 people, 600 names is pretty small and I couldn’t help but wonder why there are so few German names on those walls? I have a couple ideas as to why, but I’m no expert.

What are your thoughts about that?

Well, I think there were a lot of bystanders. But secondly, I also think that a lot of people like the Schmidts, were killed if they were caught. I’d like to think that there are more people like the Schmidts.That’s my hope for humanity.

I also wonder if that’s why Herr Schmidt never knew this about his family? I wonder if his family was so scared that anyone would find out what they did, that there was some post-trauma that kept them silent for fear of their lives, even years after the war was over?

There’s no question. I think that if you talk to silent heroes’ families—I mean, let’s be real, there were more people who were bystanders than were silent heroes—there’s no question about that. To reveal that, even months after the war, let alone just a few years after the war, is a dangerous thing to admit. There’s just so much to unpack there. Who knows the reasons they took the story to their graves?

When I was filming in Worin, when I went back with my film crew a couple years later, there was a woman there who took me aside—she spoke no English, I speak no German—and she handed me a picture. I get the chills, I get goosebumps even just thinking about that moment again. She handed me this picture of the Schmidts. Our family has only ever had 2 photos of the Schmits over the years and now to have a third photo was amazing! And I asked my translator to please ask her, “Did she ever know the Schmidts?” She had met them. “Did they ever talk about the story?” No, they didn’t ever talk about the story. However, she said, “ My mother says that she seemed like the kind of person that would’ve done the humanitarian thing.” And clearly there were conversations, I think, once they found out what had happened. Who knows why people don’t share these things. I also think that true heroes don’t talk about their heroism.

We look at our firefighters, look at our front line workers, the people that are protecting and serving us today in Covid; they’re not running around saying, “I treated 50 patients today!” They’re doing their job. I like to believe that Arthur and Paula Schmidt were doing their job. They were being human. They were being people and treating other people the way that they would want to be treated. That’s our job as human beings: to be human.

We spent three days in Worin, and one of the days my mother had asked me to please install some plaques that read: This is the site where Arthur and Paula Schmidt hid seven Jewish siblings. We did that at the farm but then we also really felt we should be honoring the town, because people knew that these kids were being hidden. Worin is a teeny-weeny, itty-bitty postage stamp of a town that’s, like, a rural little dot you drive by and you missed it, right? But the people in that town knew [about the siblings] and nobody turned them in.

So we made other plaques that went in the little town center, where they have a museum that shows things from the wheat mill and different tractors. It’s a really charming museum. But [the plaque] just acknowledges not only Arthur and Paula Schmidt, but also the mayor—who was a member of the SS—he knew about the kids and he’d actually bring food to the kids, and he never turned them in. So it was our opportunity to really thank the town of Worin and to give the people of that town some ownership of the history of their town—that they were benevolent and humanitarian.

When you were doing your man-on-the-street question: “Would You Hide Me?” What were your discoveries?

It is a very interesting question and the question didn’t even begin that way. When I was talking with Arthur Schmidt III he was telling me the story, and I started thinking about bravery and courage. I said, “Is that something that is inherited, or can you learn it?” So initially that was my question. And the more I asked that question, the more I realized that was not the right question for a couple of different reasons. Number one, it kind of smelled of eugenics which is exactly what the Nazis were doing and saying: your bloodline is who you are and we don’t like your bloodlines. So, I felt that I needed to really reformulate the question and whether it’s inherited or learned doesn’t matter nearly as much as “what would you do?” just plain and simple. So the answers that came out; there’s a lot of deflection.

A lot of people would say “too heavy of a question, we’re not in the circumstance.” Someone said, “I know too much history, I can’t answer that question.” Or some would jump right in and say, “Of course! Absolutely!” I wish that I had, like, that CIA knowledge of how to tell if somebody’s really meaning it or not. [laughing]

Yeah, but honestly I think that the most honest answers were the people who answered, “I don’t know what I would do.” We would like to think that we would. I would like to think that I would. What are the circumstances? Is my child standing right next to me and I have to hide somebody else at the risk of my own child’s life? Am I alone and it’s easier to do it? Who knows? Who knows?

The question for me really came from me having panic attacks when my housekeeper here in Los Angeles wouldn’t show up to work on time. She thought I was mad at her for not showing up to work on time, but I was like, “No! I’m panicked that you got picked up by ICE! What if I have to hide you and your kids?! Can you just text me that you’re going to be late? That’s all I care about.”

What was her reaction to hear you say that?

You would have to know her to understand her response. She started to cry and she gave me a hug. It was very touching. There was an interesting kind of snowball effect. One day, she had been working for us for so long, that there was one day I was just trying to get over to the airport and I was rushing around and said to her, “I don’t want to drive to the airport, can you please just drive me to the airport?” She just looked at me and said,“No! I can’t drive you to the airport!” and I was, like, wow, oh my gosh. I was so embarrassed. I wasn’t thinking about her life. And how much security there is just driving to the airport that she could so easily get picked up just for driving, you know? I was really embarrassed … I just had completely taken that aspect of her life for granted. And that’s when I started to panic about ICE. There was a heavy—it’s less so now—there was a very heavily concentrated period of time in Los Angeles where it was pretty freaking scary!

What are your mom and your uncle saying when they see you asking people this question: “Would you hide me?”

I certainly asked my mom and it was amazing to me how quickly she answered the question, “would she hide somebody else at the risk of me?” and her answer was automatic: “No!”

So here’s somebody who was hidden, but at the risk of my life and my brothers and my sisters. She’s like, “No!”

So that’s a very human response. So I don’t think that Arthur and Paula Schmidt thought about it. It wasn’t like they were having coffee one morning saying, “Should we hide the Weber kids?” It’s something that you just kind of do.

I wouldn’t even be surprised, especially because back in the ’40s, you know, the man ruled the roost, right? Not that Paula Schmidt wasn’t a humanitarian, she certainly was, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he just loaded those kids up on his truck and arrived in Worin with the seven kids and said to his wife, “We are hiding these children.” If that’s what happened it wouldn’t surprise me just given the times.

I wonder what she thinks about the times now?

There was a distinct point in time when she realized that she needed to reach out and make contact with her siblings. The after effects of war and trauma, everybody responds so differently, but many of my cousins will say to me about growing up: they were absolutely petrified of my uncle Alfons. To me he’s like the biggest teddy bear, but they were just petrified of him. And after the reunion, after he was reunited with my mom, 40 years later, [they said] he was changed, that he softened and that he became more accessible. So I obviously never knew him when he was living what my cousins described as a very rigid life. I only ever knew him as somebody who was very, very warm and accepting, and loving.

And so in many ways, losing my Uncle Alfons, there’s no question that it’s a big reason why my mom wanted to go back to Germany. And it’s a big reason why I felt like I must tell the story. He’s important to me and I want his memory to live on in this one wonderful light.

How important is it if you 2 didn’t carry the torch—if you didn’t tell the stories?

There’s a Jewish tenet l’dor v’dor “from generation to generation,” part of being Jewish is passing stories down from one generation to another. We do it through song, through chanting, through prayer. Other religions do it, too. But my experience as somebody who was raised in a Jewish family is the essence of storytelling. It’s no surprise to me that I’m an actor and that I am a storyteller. It just so happens right now that I am telling a story through the medium of film. But I think I have always loved being told stories, I love experiencing stories. There is something about being in the room with other people who are telling a story in real time that is so rewarding and makes you feel connected to other human beings.

I think it’s why documentaries are having a wonderful renaissance right now. It really just speaks volumes for how hungry we are for connection with other people’s experiences and other people’s lives. Certainly fiction film does that in so many ways, I mean, look at “Out of Africa,” I mean gosh the list goes on and on and on. There is something unique about documentary storytelling, and I think it’s the opportunity for us to connect with other people.

You know, for me, part of my contribution I hope to l’dor v’dor and passing on stories from one generation to the next is that the stories should give people the opportunity to practice the muscle of empathy and compassion. That’s a muscle that I think we don’t think enough about how to practice. We know how to practice piano skills. We know how to practice cooking. We know how to practice making a bed. There are lots of things that we know how to practice in life. We practice driving to get your driver’s license, or you teach your dog how to sit and stay and all that kind of stuff. How do you practice exercising compassion and empathy? I really do believe that it is something that we are taught and our elders model it for us. So I don’t think that is something that, well, there’s no doubt about it: if you don’t have role models that are modeling it for you then how can you practice it? And my hope is, if through the medium of film—which right now is the most accessible medium to most people, certainly in this country—even if it’s a podcast, someone talking about something that makes your heart open and expand, that’s a muscle. Love is a muscle—it’s something that we can work on. So that’s my goal with the film: that it gives people an opportunity to practice the muscles of compassion.

How do you think this film would’ve landed 20 years ago?

I think this year is the 25th anniversary of “Schindler’s List,” which was a massive, massive success when it came out, so we do want the stories. We do want to have opportunities to be reminded to do the right thing. And to know that there are a few humans before us that did do the right thing.

I mean, it’s why you know right now we’re looking around for an impact producer because we want to have somebody who will make sure that it gets into every corner possible, for exactly that reason. We want to engage communities in these conversations. We want to educate, we want to give people a chance to have conversations. It’s for people who don’t know about the Holocaust. For those who don’t think it happened. You know, let’s be willing to have these conversations with people so that we are not preaching to the choir.

I would like to say to somebody who wants to murder Jews today, “Can we have a conversation about it? Can you sit in your hatred with me? Can you actually sit in your hatred and have a conversation with me?”

View the trailer for “Would You Hide Me?” at bethlane.com.

*According to “U.S. Millennial Holocaust Knowledge and Awareness Survey,” the first-ever 50-state survey on Holocaust knowledge among Millennials and Gen Z. Visit www.claimscon.org to read the full report.