Read reflections and testimonies written by Holocaust survivors in their own words.
The teakwood-decked police launch bumped gently against the white sides of the luxury liner anchored off Aden in the Arabian Sea as bright moonlight danced on the black waters. Two Arab harbor policemen stood, straight as lamp poles, on the narrow rear deck of the launch, their white-gloved hands on a shiny chrome railing to steady themselves.
The apartment on Broome Street on New York’s Lower East Side is steamy in the sweltering heat of July. Odd smells waft from the old furniture; the dark brown wood casts a depressing mood over the crowded room. Only a single bright square—crisscrossed by shadows of the fire escape—illuminates the floor, its shellac worn by generations of tenement dwellers. Emma kneels on the floor and tries to concentrate on her book.
The window of the pawnshop on Second Avenue had not been washed in a long time. Peeled black paint showed ridges of rust on the heavy iron frame that surrounded the window, and only the three globes hanging above the doorway appeared to have received any maintenance care.
Now you live in Paris. Yes, the city of light and romance. The broad avenues, the gentle river Seine, the bookstalls, the little bistros on the Left Bank, the Louvre, and the hordes of tourists.
I saw before me at my feet a patch of disheveled plants whose long and narrow green leaves drooped as if beaten down by wind and age. Vines of wild ivy had twisted themselves into knots among the plants and dozens of thin, wheat-colored stems, probably lazy and dried verdure, had risen through breathing holes in the ground thatch.
“We have to eat the sardines,” my mother said. She always bought those canned in tomato sauce. I did not like the combination, I preferred oil.
I like to have a destination in my daily walk that serves as exercise, but I suspect it is also a subconscious attempt to get away from my frustration with writing. Today, for the umpteenth time, I chose the trail near my house that would lead me to the local Barnes and Noble bookstore in Bethesda.
I was uncomfortable in my box. Sure, there I lay wrapped in soft tissue, but the cardboard lid pressed against me so that I felt completely confined, unable to move. I was hoping the rowdy party would soon subside so that the bride could start opening her presents. The noise was deafening.
Listen to or read Holocaust survivors’ experiences, told in their own words through oral histories, written testimony, and public programs.