In the weeks since their hoax was uncovered, the Rosenblats have shrunk from the attention they once courted. They have changed their phone number several times; there is now a screening device that ensures every caller has to identify themselves by name before they answer. Perl says they have been shocked by the fall-out and did not expect the vociferous criticism leveled at them by fellow Holocaust survivors. They have received hate mail. Forced into a corner, the Rosenblats have retreated into a familiar position: they are doing what they have to do in order to survive.
For understandable reasons, perhaps, Herman Rosenblat chooses not to speak to me. Of all the people I talk to, not one of them says he has ever apologized. “He is still dreaming,” says Perl. “It is hard for him to say, ‘I made a mistake.’”
A 20-minute drive south of the Rosenblats’ apartment takes you to the Holocaust Memorial in Miami Beach, a large, tiled square dominated by a central pool of water. At its nucleus, there is a giant sculpture of a hand grabbing at the sky in a gesture that lies somewhere between desperation and hope. As I look around, I am introduced to Joe, a white-haired man wearing a navy-blue Argyll V-neck. He stoops forward politely to shake my hand, but does not say anything.
Later, Avi Mizrachi, the memorial’s executive director, shows me a black-and-white photo, reproduced as part of a permanent exhibition. It depicts a group of thin, pale children being liberated from Buchenwald. He points at one gangly boy, gazing hopefully out of the monochrome smudge. “And that,” says Mizrachi, “that is Joe.” We stare at the picture in silence; the image requires no further explanation.
Perhaps Joe did not need to speak to make his story worth hearing because it spoke for itself. And it strikes me that, with all the fabrications and lies that he built up around him, maybe the saddest realization is that Herman Rosenblat did not believe his own survival was story enough.VIEW THIS PAGE
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