Uncovering Montreal’s Jewish history: the power of tragedy and joy.

One frigid March day in Montreal, I bundled up and trudged over to the Musée de l’Holocauste (Holocaust Museum). I braced myself. This was going to be a rough experience. Emotions would run high. There was no way out but through.

I was visiting Montreal to research a guidebook for a major publisher, and the museum was one of my many stops. Few tourists visit this trendy Canadian city to learn about one of the 20th century’s bleakest chapters; for the most part my itinerary included markets and parks, posh bistros and art galleries. But I refused to skip over such an important institution. Montreal is home to 90,000 Jewish residents, the second-largest community in Canada, after Toronto.

The Musée de l’Holocauste is tucked into a brutalist office building in the western suburbs; to enter, you must stop at a checkpoint, pass through a metal detector and turn out your pockets. Even in Canada, a Jewish organization can’t be too careful.

The museum is excellent. Built into two different floors, the corridors contain a staggering collection of period images and artifacts. The curators tell their story patiently: first we learn about Jewish communities across Central Europe, about their daily lives as second-class citizens. Then we see the exponential rise of fascism, with the groundswell of hatred in media and public demonstration. Later come the seizures and arrests, and finally, the camps.

Then, near the end of my visit, I saw a block of text on the wall, which delivered the harshest sucker-punch of all. “Canada’s restrictive immigration policy, like that of the United States, favoured certain groups over others,” it read. “Between 1933 and 1938, refuge was given to 4,422 Jews, only 5.2% of all immigrants to Canada.”

The statement is simple and direct, but it speaks volumes. The Canadian government of the 1930s did almost nothing to prevent these atrocities. Canada closed its doors, just like most mid-century nations around the world. Canada may be known for politeness and civic consciousness, but antisemitism was as common here as anywhere else. One placard describes signs that were posted around hotels and beaches, proclaiming, “No Dogs or Jews Allowed.” Canadian hate groups actively campaigned against admitting Jewish refugees from Nazi-occupied Europe.

This history is ugly and little-known, especially in the U.S., and it’s the reason the Musée de l’Holocauste remains so vital. Canada has a handful of other Holocaust education centers as well, but they’re few and far between. When a local school takes its one field trip here, students will find exhibits that are thorough and clear. The text and images are arranged for maximum impact. If the words “never again” mean anything, the Musée de l’Holocauste drives that point home, aware that there may not be a second chance to help visitors understand.

In the final chamber, an eternal flame burns inside an empty, gray cube. Etched into the walls are the names of towns that the Holocaust fully depopulated. Homes, shops, families, congregations, all erased by militarized racism. The hollow space is powerful and haunting, just as it’s supposed to be. And clearly, the world still needs reminders like this. As antisemitic attacks and Holocaust denial run rampant across North America, museums like this one are as urgently needed as they ever were. In addition, the lessons of the Holocaust can extend beyond the Jewish Diaspora, to the many other ethnic groups that endure similar persecution. If we acknowledge George Santayana’s observation that, “those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it” then the education this museum offers may yet have an impact. There are patterns and cycles in history, but human actions and decisions are not predetermined - and therein lies hope.

Finding Jewish joy in Montreal

Yet there’s more to see in Montreal than gloom and mourning. Directly across the lobby from the Musée de l’Holocauste, I found the Bibliotéque Publique Juive (Jewish Public Library). In contrast to the museum’s windowless catacombs, the library gleams with natural light. The stacks are packed with books, and the tables and aisles buzzed with patrons. I later learned that the “Yiddish Folk Library” dated back to 1914, and it evolved gradually into its current form. I browsed the spines, delighted by their variety, and I spent long minutes studying Hebrew manuscripts under glass, as well as old treatises in Greek and Arabic. It’s a beautiful space, and my spirits lifted.

There’s more. About four miles northwest of this complex is the Musée du Montréal Juif (Museum of Jewish Montreal), which recalls the waves of immigrants who came to the so-called “Paris of North America.” Montreal was once a town of throbbing factories and ethnic neighborhoods, shopkeepers and tinkerers, and Jewish residents have played a major role since the 19th century. Montreal helped cultivate celebrity figures like songwriter Leonard Cohen, journalist Adam Gopnik, novelist Saul Bellow, cultural critic Naomi Klein and actor William Shatner. The museum has its own art gallery, where up-and-coming Jewish-Canadian artists display their work.

Even the museum’s location is significant: The Boulevard St. Laurent was once the epicenter of Jewish culture and commerce, and Yiddish conversation and signage were everywhere. In Montreal delis, Jewish bakers perfected the “Montreal Bagel,” which is now famous around the world. A dozen synagogues still encircle Mount Royal, holding well-attended services in this deeply Catholic city.

I didn’t have a chance to visit the Musée du Montréal Juif. Another guidebook writer was covering the St. Laurent corridor, and anyway, the museum had temporarily relocated to make way for renovations. Still, this museum gives me yet another reason to return to one of my favorite cities. Montreal is wise – and fortunate – to have its own Musée de l’Holocauste. Visitors benefit from such a serious, well-funded, thoughtfully constructed monument. But tragedy isn’t everything. The two museums are best experienced in tandem. First to mourn the losses and condemn the perpetrators, then to celebrate the generations that have survived and thrived. There is as much power in simcha (Jewish joy) as in tragedy. The best days, we can only hope, are still to come.

ROBERT ISENBERG is a freelance writer and multimedia producer based in Providence. His latest book is “Mile Markers: Essays on Cycling.”