Read reflections and testimonies written by Holocaust survivors in their own words.
My favorite task has always been to be a tour guide. When I was a student, in order to pay for my vacations, I used to offer my services as a tour guide for students in Paris. I did that for several summers and even for spring vacations.
I lived in Italy with my husband, Sidney, and our three daughters for almost four years from 1973 to 1976. We lived between Pisa and Livorno in Tuscany—one street away from the Mediterranean. We were stationed there with the US Army. It was a different posting from others we had experienced.
After our father lost his linen store, we had to move from the house where we had lived contentedly and peacefully. The store had been boycotted by the Nazis at the beginning of the Holocaust. In fact, we had to move several times to different areas so that we could afford to reside in our town. Our last apartment before leaving Germany was at Gymnasialstrasse 11 in Bad Kreuznach.
On the outskirts of a small village near Vichy, France, Looms the antediluvian castle the Château des Morelles Housing not grand dukes and duchesses But children from Germany, France, and Italy—waiting Lost from their individual families Scattered by the Third Reich. They eat their meager food Pretending it is the feast of royalty.
The first person to come to the United States from my family was my elder sister Jacqueline, who was hired by the United Nations as a secretary. It was in 1953. I was not even 15, and it made me dream of America, which I had discovered through movies, like How to Marry a Millionaire, with the beautiful skyline of New York City and Marylin Monroe.
Going back to my childhood in Germany, my mother always had a bowl of fresh fruit sitting on our dinner table. Fruit was just one thing that was always available, so no big deal. But things changed drastically when I fled with my parents to the United States at age 13.
My mother pined for the Adriatic Sea. Everything in that sea was so much better than the sea off the coast of Tel Aviv.
I have a falling apart album of black-and-white photos. Among the pictures of me as a radiant baby is a small paper print of a photo negative. On it you can see three adults and a little girl. I am the little girl, and I am holding my mom’s hand. Next to her is my father and a person who is unknown to me. My mother has a scarf on her head, and she holds a little hat in her spare hand. I remember the scarf and I remember the hat.
On November 21, 2009, I gave a speech as I was being inducted into the Sports Hall of Fame at the Jewish Community Center of Greater Washington (JCCGW). The event was a dinner and fundraiser for children with special needs, a cause very dear to me since my son Dov has Down syndrome and has needed much help from organizations such as this one.
Listen to or read Holocaust survivors’ experiences, told in their own words through oral histories, written testimony, and public programs.
