Read reflections and testimonies written by Holocaust survivors in their own words.
We live in a rented apartment shared with an obligatory additional person. My mother works, and my grandmother takes care of me. My father is absent from home. He has been on a business trip during this particular December. I am eight years old. Tito is our adored and undisputed Communist leader.
The red clay mixed with brown earth makes a somber noise as it is shoveled onto the plain pine casket. It contains the body of my second cousin Friedel.
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.
The name of the street was Rottenbiller in Budapest, Hungary. It was named after a mayor of Budapest who served in the 19th century. We got an apartment there after our original flat was bombed out. I was about three years old. My mother, my grandmother, my uncle Herman with his wife and later two daughters, my uncle Sanyi, and I all lived there. I mostly remember certain pictures in my mind.
As a Holocaust survivor and volunteer at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, I think much of the work we do here qualifies as building a kind of monument.
Recently, I spoke to a group of eighth graders via Zoom. From what I could see, the students in the several classrooms were very attentive and well prepared. Using the PowerPoint prepared by the Museum’s Office of Survivor Affairs, I told the story of my Holocaust experience.
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.
There is no other monumental structure more powerful than the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum.
Listen to or read Holocaust survivors’ experiences, told in their own words through oral histories, written testimony, and public programs.
