What is a Little Known Story from WWII?

I often bump into an inspiring story that I have never heard before. How about you? Here is a story from World War II in Europe. It gave me a big lift the day I first read it, and many times afterward. Stories ARE an awesome way to get at feelings and give you a lift, aren’t they?

This story starts in Piotrkow, Poland in August 1942.

The sky was gloomy that morning as we waited anxiously. All the men, women, and children of Piotrkow’s Jewish ghetto had been herded into a square.

Word had gotten around that we were being moved. My father had only recently died from typhus, which had run rampant through the crowded ghetto. My greatest fear was that our family would be separated.

‘Whatever you do,’ Isidore, my eldest brother, whispered to me, ‘don’t tell them your age. Say you’re sixteen.

‘I was tall for a boy of 11, so I could pull it off. That way I might be deemed valuable as a worker.

An SS man approached me, boots clicking against the cobblestones. He looked me up and down, and then asked my age.

‘Sixteen,’ I said. He directed me to the left, where my three brothers and other healthy young men already stood.

My mother was motioned to the right with the other women, children, sick and elderly people.

I whispered to Isidore, ‘Why?’ He didn’t answer. I ran to Mama’s side and said I wanted to stay with her. ‘No, ‘she said sternly.

‘Getaway. Don’t be a nuisance. Go with your brothers.’

She had never spoken so harshly before. But I understood: She was protecting me. She loved me so much that, just this once, she pretended not to. It was the last I ever saw of her.

My brothers and I were transported in a cattle car to Germany.

We arrived at the Buchenwald concentration camp one night later and were led into a crowded barrack. The next day, we were issued uniforms and identification numbers.

‘Don’t call me Herman anymore.’ I said to my brothers. ‘Call me at 94983.’

I was put to work in the camp’s crematorium, loading the dead into a hand-cranked elevator.