High atop a shelf in my farmhouse stands a miniature plastic RCMP officer, his felt uniform complete with the kinds of tiny details that would delight any child.
It's a souvenir from our first family trip to the Parliament Buildings in Ottawa in 1960, when I was eight years old. That precious doll is emblematic of the intense pride we felt being citizens of this great country, and every time I see my little Mountie, I thank my parents for the good sense and courage they had to immigrate to Canada in the first place and rebuild their shattered lives.
Recently, 48 years after our unforgettable trip, my mother, now 87, was invited to Parliament Hill for a Holocaust Remembrance Day ceremony. She'd been asked to lay a wreath in memory of her family and the six million Jews who were annihilated. About 50 survivors from Toronto and Montreal were set to participate, travelling to Ottawa by bus for the day.
As excited as my mother was by the prospect, I knew the long bus ride would be too tiring for her: Just last year, she'd undergone open-heart surgery, and we wondered whether she'd ever travel again. If Mom was going to make this short but monumental journey, I'd have to accompany her by plane and spend the night.
For weeks in advance, my mother was exhilarated by the thought of making the pilgrimage to our nation's capital after so many years, determined to honour those she had lost in that dark and painful chapter that had so devastated her world.
I mentioned our plans to my friend Mitchel Raphael, the Capital Diary columnist for Maclean's magazine, and his cogs started turning. A couple of weeks earlier, he'd reported that Laureen Harper, the Prime Minister's wife, confided she was a big fan of Fashion Television and had been following my career for years.
Mitchel decided to let Ms. Harper know I would be visiting Ottawa with my mother. No sooner did he inform her of our plans than she invited us to 24 Sussex Dr. for dinner. We were flabbergasted! Mom marvelled at how an unassuming girl from a tiny shtetl in Poland could ever be asked to dine at the illustrious home of the Prime Minister.
And so, armed with a couple of the most prestigious invitations she'd ever known, my mother and I made the trek to Ottawa. Like a child, Mom was thrilled at the bird's-eye view of majestic Parliament Hill outside our hotel room window, wondering if she might actually get the chance to meet Stephen Harper himself. "He's nice looking," she noted sweetly. "I like him." This visit had nothing to do with politics.
We arrived at 24 Sussex with Environment Minister John Baird, Jason Kenney, Secretary of State for Multiculturalism and Canadian Identity, and Mitchel, who was carrying a huge bouquet of flowers.
Entering the gates was a fantasy. But reality set in when the front door opened and we saw the ebullient Ms. Harper standing there, dressed simply in white slacks and a black-and-white top. "Hey! I thought I said this was going to be a casual dinner!" she quipped, getting a load of my dramatic coat and chic David Dixon dress.
By her greeting, it seemed as though our hostess had expected us to be wearing jeans. But even though it was just another cozy "home-cooked" meal for the PM's wife, for us it was the height of splendour.
Unfortunately, her husband had had to fly to Calgary, so Ms. Harper was hosting solo. She was warmer, more beautiful and more gregarious than we could have imagined, and immediately began regaling us with tales of political high life, joking that she'd now have to keep up with French President Nicolas Sarkozy's fashionable wife, Carla Bruni.
We could hardly believe we were sitting at a table that boasted such a history of dignitaries. Yet there, telling her story, was my diminutive mom - the girl from that small Polish village, the sole survivor of a family of 10 who all suffocated in a basement bunker. Miraculously, my mother was revived. For two years, until their liberation in 1945, both my parents were on the run, depending on the kindness of strangers who hid them from their Nazi persecutors.
It's a story Mom's told countless times. But to hear the agonizing saga relayed loud and clear in those significant surroundings was especially powerful: My mother is still haunted by the memory of having to keep her Jewish identity secret and is often surprised when I talk so openly about my roots. "Being the child of a Holocaust survivor defines me," I explain. "It makes me proud." And on this evening, it did especially so.
The next afternoon was picture perfect, with a backdrop of Canadian flags waving on the steps of Parliament Hill, and a lone Israeli flag planted front and centre. The poignant ceremony was staged in the sunshine and featured an impressive range of speakers all reminding us why we must never forget. A children's choir added to the bittersweet atmosphere.
One by one, survivors laid their wreaths, evoking memories of a time when a Star of David waving so proudly was unthinkable. Accompanied by Senator Art Eggleton, my mother and I gingerly placed our wreath. I can only imagine the disparate emotions that flooded my mom's heart.
Afterward, she was philosophical. "If you live long enough, you get to do everything," she reasoned, incredulous that she'd not only survived, but truly arrived.
Jeanne Beker lives in Toronto.