On September 11, 2001, I stood next to the Empire State Building, watching smoke billow above the skyscrapers moments before the Twin Towers fell. Shock and fear gripped everyone around me as I moved swiftly to get as far away from 34th Street and 5th Avenue as possible. Bridges, tunnels, and trains on and off the island of Manhattan were closed indefinitely. I made a call to a friend back in my suburban neighborhood, asking her to retrieve my three children from elementary school. I gave her my sister’s phone number in Chicago, “just in case” — a call I will never forget.
As a child, I had been assured the Holocaust could never happen again. Yet, in that moment, it felt like history’s darkest echoes had returned — racism, hatred, and violence erupting in New York City.
My mother, Ginger, lived a life that mirrored Job’s trials. Born into poverty in Berlin, she watched the Gestapo shove her mother into a black car, never to return. She became one of the “Weber Siblings,” seven hidden children of the Holocaust who survived against all odds. After the war, they immigrated to America through the Jewish Children’s Bureau, only to be separated and placed in different foster homes. My mother was adopted, and social workers advised her new parents to sever ties with her biological family to help her “acclimate.”
She always told my siblings and me that we would never meet her biological brothers and sisters. But in 1986, 40 years after her emigration, that changed. Mom reunited with Alfons, Senta, Ruth, Gertrude, Renee, and Judith — siblings who had stayed connected and quietly tracked her whereabouts. I learned of the reunion after the fact, living in another state, and always wondered what that moment must have felt like.
Ten years later, the Weber siblings gathered again to celebrate the 50th anniversary of their emigration. They stood on my mother’s front lawn in front of a giant poster of the Statue of Liberty, posing for a photo as if they had never been apart.
At that 1996 reunion, our cousin Lynn compiled a massive scrapbook chronicling the family’s history, filled with photos and documents. Uncle Alfons wrote a 40-page account of his memories, helping us piece together their story. He even traveled back to Worin, Germany, where the siblings had been hidden for two years. He, Aunt Gertrude, and my mother worked tirelessly to gather the documents needed to honor Arthur and Paula Schmidt — the quiet heroes who risked their lives to hide the Weber children. They submitted an application to Yad Vashem to have the Schmidts named “Righteous Among the Nations.” Though Alfons was alive when the designation was approved, he passed away in 2016, just six months before the official ceremony in Jerusalem.
In 2017, after 72 years of refusing to return to Berlin, my mom decided to pick up Alfons' mantle and travel back to Worin. My sister, father, and I accompanied her. That day changed my life, and I committed to making a major motion picture to ensure that the Schmidts — and all the silent heroes who chose courage over complicity — would never be forgotten.
UnBroken became my siren call to honor these incredible upstanders. I chose to focus on the goodness in people, to highlight bold acts of generosity, bravery, and kindness.
Over my seven-year journey to make this film, it became my response to the events shaping our world today. Hope will always triumph over evil — yesterday, today, and forevermore.
And in many ways, UnBroken was the gift I gave myself for missing that 1986 reunion — a way to finally step into the story and carry it forward.