Jack Meister: sharing his colossal life

Oo one had introduced me to Jack. But every Thursday this quiet, smiling man stood near the Auschwitz exhibit, ready to talk with visitors who stopped by, making jokes with passing staff.

It was 2016 and I was new to working at the Sydney Jewish Museum. I was excited, overwhelmed and trying my best to show everyone I was up to the job.

After a few weeks of exchanging smiling nods, I finally stopped to introduce myself. I had no idea that this would be the beginning of a friendship and a surprising new chapter in Jack’s life.

Jack shared with me his story. A story of a happy childhood, marked by dark moments of antisemitic violence in his hometown of Kielce, Poland. Then of war: of ghettos, forced labour, separation from his family, gruelling journeys in cattle cars. Of Auschwitz. Of a death march, Buchenwald and liberation by American soldiers.

But for me, the most intriguing part came after the war. Jack told me about his recovery, then the years he spent in a Swiss children’s home for orphan survivors. As one of the older kids, Jack mentored the young ones. But he had learning to do himself. He had to re-learn basic table manners; how to eat with a knife and fork, hygiene, household chores. He had missed so many formative years. He trained in leatherwork, following his father’s trade.

Eventually the time came to leave Switzerland. Like many survivors who came to Australia he wanted distance from the horrors of Europe. This was reinforced by news of the Kielce pogrom of 1946 when locals murdered 42 Jews who had returned after surviving the Holocaust.

Jack arrived in Australia in 1949. He was fostered by a local Jewish family while he found his feet.

At the Maccabean Hall, a gathering place for Jewish youth, Jack met Nita at a Sunday dance. As he said: they “clicked together. She didn’t speak much of my language, and I didn’t speak much of her language, but it didn’t matter”. A few months later, Jack asked her father for permission to marry. The reply: “If she likes you, and you make her happy, of course.”

They were married in the Maccabean Hall.

When the museum was established within the Maccabean Hall in 1992, Jack signed up to volunteer. By the time I met him, he had been coming in every Thursday for 24 years!

There is beautiful magic in the power of place. Within this building Jack found safety, love and purpose over more than six decades.

But in all this time, he had stood quietly in the exhibition space, directing people or occasionally showing the tattoo from Auschwitz, a glimpse into his story. Most survivors volunteering at the museum spoke to large student groups. Why not Jack?

Eventually I plucked up the courage to ask. He couldn’t bear the thought of burdening innocent young people with the pain of his past.

What about adults? Would he consider speaking to adult groups?

Jack laughed. A joy-filled, child-like laugh. The kind you hear for a genuinely good joke. “What do I have to say?”

This felt like an invitation for a nudge.

A few weeks later, Jack agreed to speak to volunteers undertaking the guide course. They were patient, interested and encouraging. Jack spoke for nearly two hours.

From that first tentative telling, it was clear Jack’s story connected with people. Soon he started speaking to adult groups. Then, cautiously, senior high school students. He worried about the kids. But after receiving letters from them describing the impact of his story, he agreed to speak to more student groups. And speak he did: every Thursday (and the first Tuesday of the month), to tens, then hundreds, then thousands of students.

When I left the museum, I grieved the loss of regular conversations with Jack. I missed him terribly. I would phone him on Thursdays, grinning as he answered with his signature “Hey-looo?” accented greeting, beaming joy through the radio waves. He’d tell me about the “tremendous” questions his students had asked that day.

In recent years, Jack told his story for TV, radio, news and publications. He joined March of the Living; spoke to dignitaries and presented at communal commemorations. And, of course, has connected with many thousands of students who have been changed by hearing him speak.

For those who heard Jack speak, there was a word he would frequently use to describe his proudest moments: “colossal”. Moving to Australia, sharing his story for the first time, being awarded an OAM – these were all “colossal”. Indeed Jack himself was and will always be colossal; a man of great care, resilience, bravery and joy through the many chapters of his life.

To Jack, who leaves a colossal hole in our community. May his memory be a blessing.

Rebecca Kummerfeld was head of learning at the Sydney Jewish Museum from 2018 to 2023.