Sir Bernard Eder QC is one of the most distinguished figures in international commercial law, a former Judge of the High Court of England and Wales and now a globally respected international arbitrator and judge of the Singapore International Commercial Court. Born in Malta and educated at Cambridge, he built a remarkable career at the Bar before his appointment to the Bench, where he served with distinction in the Commercial Court.
Although widely recognised for his legal achievements, Sir Bernard's connection to Malta runs deeper than professional biography. His family's presence on the island forms part of a lesser‑known chapter of Maltese and European history - one that gives his keynote address at this year's Holocaust Memorial Service at the Imperial on 27 January, a particular resonance. His return to Malta for this solemn occasion brings together personal memory, historical reflection, and the enduring moral questions that the Holocaust continues to pose. This is what he told the audience:
"It is a real honour and privilege to be here in Malta to speak on this most solemn Holocaust Memorial Day, when people around the world remember all those who perished in the Holocaust. In the face of the inhuman atrocities that occurred during the Second World War, the act of remembrance is never easy. Memory asks something of us: attention, humility, and the willingness to confront the darkest chapters of human behaviour.
As Elie Wiesel once asked:
"How does one mourn for six million people who died? How many candles does one light? How many prayers does one recite? Do we know how to remember the victims, their solitude, their helplessness? They left us without a trace..."
Many members of my family died in the Holocaust. In one sense, they left no trace. But my great grandparents, my grandparents, my father and mother managed to escape from Vienna - and they survived. And so, in truth, I am their trace. I am pleased to say that my brother, Andrew, and my sister, Shirley - who are here today - are also part of that trace, as are all our children and now great-grandchildren including others who are also here today - my eldest son, Simon, his son, Jonah and my cousin, Philip.
The fact that we are here today is largely due to the kindness and generosity of the Government and people of Malta. That is why it is such an honour and privilege to be invited to speak here, on this island that quite literally gave my family a future.
My family's story could rival any Hollywood film. It could easily fill a Netflix box set. But I have been asked to speak briefly about our connection with Malta - so I will offer just a few carefully chosen chapters.
My sister, Shirley, and I were both born in Malta shortly after the Second World War. How did this come to be?
My father was born in Vienna in 1916. His father owned a hat factory, exporting hats across Europe.
Malta was one of their markets - largely because of the presence of the British Army and the families that accompanied it. As a very young man, my father visited Malta twice a year, in 1936 and 1937, as a sales representative. At that stage, Malta was simply a place of business; no one imagined it would soon become a place of survival.
In March 1938, Germany invaded Austria in what became known as the Anschluss - the annexation of Austria into Nazi Germany. Almost overnight, life changed irrevocably.
Immediately after the Anschluss, my father arrived for his first day at university in Vienna. He never attended a single lecture. He was stopped at the door and told simply: "No Jews." In that moment, he was excluded from education, from public life, and from the future he had assumed was his. He later said that this was the precise instant when he understood that there was no longer any place for Jews in Austria.
In the months that followed, Nazi persecution intensified rapidly. Jewish businesses were attacked, rights stripped away, and violence normalised.
One night, my father and my grandfather were taken and beaten outside the main synagogue in Vienna. It was then that the family knew they had to leave - not one day later.
At that early stage, it was still possible to escape Austria, although Jews were allowed to take almost nothing with them. The real problem was finding somewhere willing to accept them. Most European borders were already closed to Jewish refugees. Visas were refused, quotas were full, and indifference was widespread.
After much effort, my father managed to persuade the Maltese Government to grant entry to himself, his parents, and his two siblings - Robert and Lisl - in order to establish a hat factory. Permission was granted by the Governor by letter dated 8 August 1938.
Importantly, permission was also granted to my grandmother's parents. Three generations arrived together. My father, my uncle, Robert, my aunt, Lisl together with my grandparents and great grandparents. This mattered profoundly. At a time when Jewish families across Europe were being systematically torn apart, Malta allowed a family to remain intact. This was something my whole family remembered with lifelong gratitude.
The family attempted to ship their furniture and possessions from Vienna to Malta. However, the shipment never arrived. It was turned back by the Germans and redistributed to bombed-out families in Germany. Like so many refugees, they arrived with little more than documents, memories, and fear.
My father and his family arrived in Malta in September 1938. By January 1939, they had established a small hat factory in Msida, employing around thirty local workers. For a brief moment, life began again.
That sense of stability did not last. When war broke out in September 1939, my father was still an Austrian citizen - and therefore classified as an enemy alien. He, my grandfather, and my uncle were immediately arrested and interned in Fort Salvatore.*
On 12 September 1939, a group of Jewish internees, including my father, grandfather, and uncle, wrote to the Governor.
The petition reads:
"Your Excellency, We the undersigned Jewish internees in Fort Salvatore beg to lay before His Excellency our following humble request: why should we be kept here like prisoners, we, the enemies of Hitler by birth, persecuted by him for years? Could not we be of any help to the British Empire instead of leading a useless life here? We implore your Excellency to give us a chance and let us serve for Great Britain to whom we owe everything. Great Britain gave us shelter and protection; we want to repay it in any way needed, even with our lives."
The following day, 13 September 1939, a handwritten endorsement noted:
"I intend that the cases of all these internees shall be examined. I trust it will be possible to release almost all of them."
Conditions in Fort Salvatore were harsh. My father later recalled overcrowding, poor sanitation, and the constant uncertainty of not knowing what would happen next. During this period, he contracted dysentery and suffered from severe colitis for the rest of his life - a physical reminder of those months behind barbed wire.
My grandfather, father and Uncle Robert were eventually released in November 1939.
Freedom, however, was conditional. My father was required to keep a detailed diary of everyone he spoke to and to report weekly to the police. My uncle Robert later recalled how my father was once questioned about an unrecorded conversation - only for it to emerge that it had taken place while buying bananas. Even acts of daily normality were subject to scrutiny.
After Italy entered the war in 1940, my grandfather, father and uncle were again interned, this time for a much longer period. They were not released until April 1941. Eventually, they came to live at 42 Graham Street in Sliema, where my grandmother operated a soup kitchen for soldiers. Feeding others became her quiet form of resistance and gratitude.
During these years, many Maltese showed extraordinary kindness. My uncle Robert often spoke of a British officer, Captain Ede, who took a particular interest in helping the family. Robert remembered him as brusque, deeply anti-Fascist, and quietly generous - someone who understood that these refugees were victims, not threats.
Between June 1940 and November 1942, Malta endured relentless bombardment and siege. Buildings were destroyed, lives lost, and the hat factory did not survive. Once again, the family had to begin from nothing.
It is worth remembering that my family was not alone. During the late 1930s and early war years, Malta stood out in Europe as a place where Jews fleeing Nazi persecution did not require visas to enter - a rare exception on a continent that was rapidly shutting its doors. As a result, many Jewish refugees from Central Europe were able to reach the island when other destinations were closed to them.
Like my family, some stayed only briefly, hoping to move on to Britain or Palestine; others remained and rebuilt their lives here. Many were classified as enemy aliens, interned, released, and in some cases re‑interned. Malta's willingness to admit Jewish refugees - despite its own vulnerability, scarcity, and the immense pressures of war - represents a largely overlooked but deeply significant chapter in Holocaust and refugee history. Malta's role in offering refuge - despite its own immense hardship - remains a largely untold chapter of Holocaust history.
Shortly after the siege eased, my father applied for naturalisation. His application was gazetted in The Times of Malta on 10 June 1943.
Later that year, he joined the British Army. His number was 93118 Bdr, a Bombardier in the Royal Artillery - equivalent to a corporal. For someone once beaten outside a synagogue and imprisoned as an enemy alien, wearing a British uniform was a powerful affirmation of belonging. He served until after the war ended.
In 1947, my father married my mother in Grenoble, France.
They lived at 42 Stella Maris Street in Sliema.
That is where my sister and I grew up until we moved to England in 1958, when I was five years old. As children, we thought of Malta simply as home. Only later did we understand what it truly meant.
After the war, my family abandoned manufacturing and instead opened shops - first selling hats, then women's dresses. One shop at the top of Tower Road in Sliema was called HARO, named after my father Hans and my uncle Robert.
Later came a children's shop in what was then Prince of Wales Road, now Manoel Dimech Road, another dress shop in Valletta, and a further children's shop further down Tower Road. Malta did not merely offer refuge; it offered dignity, purpose, and the chance to contribute.
In order to purchase merchandise, my father would often travel to London. On one occasion shortly after the creation of the State of Israel, he went to see its newly appointed acting representative of the Government of Israel. The next day - 22 February 1949 - he wrote a letter offering to serve as Honorary Vice Consul for Isreal in Malta.
It was always a great disappointment to him that he was never offered this role. However, the fact that he made the offer is a testament to his determination to help rebuild a broken world.
And that is exactly what the whole of my family did. Having escaped from Vienna, Malta offered them a new life. Together they built a thriving business. My father and Robert worked together mainly in the Sliema shops. My aunt Lisl was primarily in charge of the shop in Valetta. She was a real driving force. And apart from work, they obviously enjoyed themselves.
In truth, Malta saved my family. When so many doors were closed, Malta opened one.
Elie Wiesel later corrected himself when he said:
"We are their trace."
We who live and breathe today are the trace of those who were murdered - Jews and non-Jews alike - people of all faiths, races, identities, and orientations, targeted by hatred and indifference.
"Let us remember those who suffered and perished then," Wiesel said, "those who fell with weapons in their hands and those who died with prayers on their lips, all those who have no tombs: our heart remains their cemetery."
Malta today is very different from the island of 1938, but the moral question remains unchanged: what does it mean to make space for others? The story I have shared is not only about Jews fleeing Austria, but about a country that - imperfectly, but decisively - chose humanity.
An ancient Jewish teaching says: "Whoever saves a single life is considered to have saved an entire world." For us, that teaching became real here. Lives were saved, worlds continued, and generations followed.
Let us remember that the choices we make today - to protect, to help, to stand for others - are the seeds of worlds yet to be saved."
*Fort San Salvatore, used by the British as an internment facility during the Second World War, later passed into private hands after the government of the day transferred it to a company linked to Prime Minister Dom Mintoff's brother through the redemption of a long-term emphyteutical lease. A few days ago, the Government of Malta announced plans to repurchase the fort and restore it to public ownership.
**This event was sponsored by the Embassy of the Federal Republic of Germany together with the Israeli Embassy.