Read reflections and testimonies written by Holocaust survivors in their own words.
When I give a presentation, I almost always start by saying I am here because I was lucky. Why was I lucky? Because there were people around us who risked their lives to help us and to save us, and because of the love and courage of my parents.
After my husband Sidney came home from the Gulf War, we decided that we wanted to be together with our family as much as possible. This would not be an easy task, as we lived at West Point in New York, Jordana was in school in Boston, and Judith and Naomi lived in Germany, where their respective husbands were stationed. We decided to meet in Holland, during Jordana’s winter break, in February of 1992.
The Uilenburgersjoel (Uilenburger Synagogue) was built in Amsterdam in 1735, in the center of the Jewish quarter. Regular services were held there from 1735 until 1942. The Jewish quarter was a lively area in the center of Amsterdam where people spoke Dutch with some Yiddish and Hebrew woven into the language. Next to the sjoel was a large square, het Waterlooplein. A market was held at the square every day but Saturday. The women got together to share their family news; they gossiped and bought their food for the day. The sjoel was in the center of it all.
Even if English were my mother tongue, I would not be able to express the sadness I felt when I got the news that Harry Markowicz is not with us anymore. I knew that his health was deteriorating, I knew about his time in home hospice care in the last few weeks, but the news was still devastating.
We are in the fourth month of the COVID-19 quarantine and government-imposed restrictions. Of all the safety-related recommendations, the hardest to follow for me is the social distancing in general, and the rule of no hugging and kissing.
Father’s Day is just around the corner and I am looking forward to celebrating it. Being the father of six daughters and the grandfather of four fills me with joy, not to mention the expectations of surprise presents. Presents or no presents, the love of children and grandchildren is the best thing that any papa anywhere can get. And I get a lot. Unfortunately my father never had a chance to receive the same love from me. He died during the Holocaust when I, his only child, was not even two years old.
If you turn on the TV today, if you look at the headlines in the newspapers, or visit your favorite media on the internet, you will find nothing but bad news. From the death toll of the COVID-19 virus to the riots in major US cities, from the rising antisemitism to the blatant racism, it could drive anyone to depression and even desperation.
When General Eisenhower visited a concentration camp, he had the US Army document everything because he foresaw that, in the future, there would be people who deny what happened there. I admire his foresight. Since then countries, groups, and individuals have been denying the Holocaust. They say that the Holocaust has not happened, or the whole thing is exaggerated. They say that the Jews came up with the whole idea to get money. However, if the Holocaust has not happened, why has Germany paid? Germany paid because the Germans knew that the Holocaust happened, and they are responsible for the death of millions and the unimaginable suffering they caused.
I have a sister, 14 months younger than me, named Zsuzsi. Her name was changed to Shosha in Israel. She was a beautiful, sweet little girl loved by everyone. Our relationship changed when we got older and she realized that she did not have to do everything I asked her to. As the older sister, it seemed to me natural that whatever I was asked to do I should forward it to her. She used to comply in order to please me, but this came to an end when she realized that all those requests were my jobs and my responsibilities.
Having been on long trips in the forests myself, taking in the sights, the smells, the breeze, experiencing the entire picture as a whole, I could dwell on it for quite a while.
Listen to or read Holocaust survivors’ experiences, told in their own words through oral histories, written testimony, and public programs.