How one boy, my father, survived the Holocaust

Two years ago on a stopover in Prague, I made a discovery that became the catalyst for a life-changing journey. On the walls of the Pinkas Synagogue memorial I was shocked to see the Rieden name, my name, written over and over.

My knees buckled as I tried to take it in. These were not people I recognised – Berta, Emil, Felix, Ota – but I instinctively knew they were something to do with me. I have never believed in fate, but I know that I was meant to be there on that day. I was meant to see those names. I felt a shiver run down my spine, tapping on each vertebra, and had an eerie sense that someone was behind me looking over my shoulder.

I later discovered I was right. Behind me on the opposite wall yet more of my family were listed, this time taking up two rows. These were my grandmother’s brothers, sisters and nieces. Before me was the evidence of a massacre of epic proportions I’d known nothing about.

The walls of the synagogue are painted with an artistic roll call of Jews from Bohemia and Moravia who were murdered by the Nazis. Names are listed with their dates of birth and death. It takes your breath away, and the hundreds of thousands of tourists and pilgrims who come to this place fall silent as the enormity of the unconscionable war crime that stripped a nation of its Jews strikes home