Read reflections and testimonies written by Holocaust survivors in their own words.
Jon, our grandson, was studying biographies when he was in second grade. Jon loved to read and was familiar with this type of literature. I had told him a little bit about living in England and of course he knew Alan, my foster brother. So he was aware that my life had been a little out of the ordinary.
On March 10, 1945, the Soviet Army found us in the barn. We had been there for three weeks. The Soviet soldiers told us that the Germans were losing the war, that the Nazis were retreating. They informed us that they had already found other camps and some survivors.
Spring 1944. I had just left the apartment house where, in the attic, we were storing some of our furniture and other belongings. We had rented the storage space when we had to move from our own apartment to one we had to share with another family.
One day my mother asked me to take off my yellow star because we had to go to the country. We lived in a ghetto, and we were not supposed to leave. If we were caught on the outside we could be killed and they also might kill other people in the ghetto for good measure.
I have a photograph of a garden I look at often and longingly. The photo shows several family members sitting and standing around a small garden waterfall, topped by a sculpture of a little girl holding an umbrella. The year was 1938.
On my fourth birthday, it was cold, and snow covered the ground, beautiful, pristine snow. I had a small birthday party because the Hanukkah holiday would be celebrated soon. A birthday party was called imieniny, which actually means “name day.” I received many gifts—puzzles, books, and from my parents, a wool outfit.
On the morning of February 27, 1943, a Saturday, we wearily stood at our workbenches turning out parts for some air-force equipment, my high school classmate and close friend, Gert, working not far from me. Suddenly the door opened and an SS officer stepped into the room. “Pay attention,” he called out. “Drop whatever you are doing and leave by the main entrance.” We were stunned.
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.
My husband Jackie and I were invited for a reunion of his former Seward Park High School friends from New York City. These were the young people with whom Jackie had grown up. They and their families had lived and some still were living in the neighborhood where Jackie was born, played, and attended both secular and religious school.
Lieutenant Block had never been to a party like it. The gothic, high-ceilinged hall, more than the length of a football field, was full to overflowing with people in costumes and masks, some humorous, others hideous.
Listen to or read Holocaust survivors’ experiences, told in their own words through oral histories, written testimony, and public programs.