whatever
08-29-2007, 07:38 PM
and would give the world hope.
This is a truly beautiful and moving story - and it happens to be
true. We hear so much negativity these days, we forget to look for
all the good that is in human beings. This story will remind you of
the goodness and connectedness we humans can enjoy.
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, 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. "Get away. 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 weeks 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 94983."
I was put to work in the camp's crematorium, loading
the dead into a hand-cranked elevator. I, too, felt
dead. Hardened, I had become a number.
Soon, my brothers and I were sent to Schlieben, one
of Buchenwald's sub-camps near Berlin. One morning
I thought I heard my mother's voice. "Son, she said
softly but clearly, "I am sending you an angel."
Then I woke up. Just a dream. A beautiful dream.
But in this place there could be no angels. There
was only work, hunger and fear.
A couple of days later, I was walking around the
camp, around the barracks, near the barbed-wire
fence where the guards could not easily see. I was
alo ne. On the other side of the fence, I spotted
someone; a young girl with light, almost luminous
curls. She was half-hidden behind a birch tree. I
glanced around to make sure no one saw me. I called
to her softly in German.
"Do you have something eat?" She didn't understand.
I inched closer to the fence and repeated my
question in Polish. She stepped forward. I was
thin and gaunt, with rags wrapped around my feet,
but the girl looked unafraid. In her eyes, I saw
life. She pulled an apple from her woolen jacket
and threw it over the fence. I grabbed the fruit
and, as I started to run away, I heard her say
faintly, "I'll see you tomorrow."
I returned to the same spot by the fence at the same
time every day. She was always there with something
for me to eat -- a hunk of bread or, better yet, an
apple. We didn't dare speak or linger. To be
caught would mean death for us both. I didn't know
any-thing about her except that she understood
Polish and seemed to me to be just a kind farm girl.
What was her name? Why was she risking her life
for me? Hope was in such short supply, and this
girl on the other side of the fence gave me some, as
nourishing in its way as the bread and apples.
Nearly seven months later, my brothers and I were
crammed into a coal car and shipped to
Theresienstadt camp in Czechoslovakia.
"Don't return," I told the girl that day. "We're
leaving."
I turned toward the barracks and didn't look back,
didn't even say good-bye to the girl whose name I'd
never learned ... the girl with the apples.
We were in Theresienstadt for three months. The war
was winding down and Allied forces were closing in,
yet my fate seemed sealed. On May 10, 1945, I was
scheduled to die in the gas chamber at 10:00 AM.
In the quiet of dawn, I tried to prepare myself .
So many times death seemed ready to claim me, but
somehow I'd survived. Now, it was over. I thought
of my parents. At least, I thought, we will be
reunited.
At 8 A.M. there was a commotion. I heard shouts,
and saw people running every which way through camp.
I caught up with my brothers.
Russian troops had liberated the camp! The gates
swung open. Everyone was running, so I did too.
Amazingly, all of my brothers had survived; I'm not
sure how. But I knew that the girl with the apples
had been the key to my survival. In a place where
evil seemed triumphant, one person's goodness had
saved my life, had given me hope in a place where
there was none. My mother had promised to send me
an angel, and the angel had come.
Eventually I made my way to England where I was
sponsored by a Jewish charity, put up in a hostel
with other boys who had survived the Holo caust and
trained in electronics. Then I came to America,
where my brother Sam had already moved.
I served in the U. S. Army during the Korean War,
and returned to New York City after two years. By
August 1957 I'd opened my own electronics repair
shop. I was starting to settle in.
One day, my friend Sid who I knew from England
called me. "I've got a date. She's got a Polish
friend. Let's double date."
A blind date? Nah, that wasn't for me. But Sid
kept pestering me, and a few days later we headed up
to the Bronx to pick up his date and her friend,
Roma. I had to admit, for a blind date this wasn't
so bad. Roma was a nurse at a Bronx hospital. She
was kind and smart. Beautiful, too, with swirling
brown curls and green, almond-shaped eyes that
sparkled with life.
The four of us drove out to Coney Island. Roma was
easy to talk to, easy to be with. Turned out she
was wary of blind dates too! We were both just
doing our friends a favor. We took a stroll on the
boardwalk, enjoying the salty Atlantic breeze, and
then had dinner by the shore. I couldn't remember
having a better time.
We piled back into Sid's car, Roma and I sharing the
backseat. As European Jews who had survived the
war, we were aware that much had been left unsaid
between us. She broached the subject, "Where were
you, during the war?" she asked softly.
"The camps," I said, the terrible memories still
vivid, the irreparable loss. I had tried to forget.
But you can never forget.
She nodded. "My family was hiding on a farm in
Germany, not far from Berlin," she told me. "My
father knew a priest, and he got us Aryan papers."
I imagined how she must have suffered too, fear, a
constant companion. And yet here we were, both
survivors, in a new world.
"There was a camp next to the farm." Roma continued.
"I saw a boy there and I would throw him apples
every day."
What an amazing coincidence that she had helped some
other boy. "What did he look like? I asked.
He was tall. Skinny. Hungry. I must have seen him
every day for six months."
My heart was racing. I couldn't believe it. This
couldn't be.
"Did he tell you one day not to come back because he
was leaving Schlieben?" Roma looked at me in
amazement.
"Yes."
"That was me!"
I was ready to burst with joy and awe, flooded with
emotions. I couldn't believe it. My angel.
"I'm not letting you go," I said to Roma. And in
the back of the car on that blind date, I proposed
to her. I didn't want to wait.
" You're crazy!" she said. But she invited me to
meet her parents for Shabbat dinner the following
week. There was so much I looked forward to
learning about Roma, but the most important things I
always knew: her steadfastness, her goodness. For
many months, in the worst of circumstances, she had
come to the fence and given me hope. Now that I'd
found her again, I could never let her go. That
day, she said yes.
And I kept my word. After nearly 50 years of
marriage, two children and three grandchildren, I
have never let her go.
Herman Rosenblat Miami Beach, Florida.
This is a true story and you can find out more by
googling Herman Rosenblat as he was bar mitzvahed at
age 75. This story is being made into a movie
called "The Fence"
http://www.atlanticoverseaspictures.com/
This is a truly beautiful and moving story - and it happens to be
true. We hear so much negativity these days, we forget to look for
all the good that is in human beings. This story will remind you of
the goodness and connectedness we humans can enjoy.
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, 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. "Get away. 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 weeks 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 94983."
I was put to work in the camp's crematorium, loading
the dead into a hand-cranked elevator. I, too, felt
dead. Hardened, I had become a number.
Soon, my brothers and I were sent to Schlieben, one
of Buchenwald's sub-camps near Berlin. One morning
I thought I heard my mother's voice. "Son, she said
softly but clearly, "I am sending you an angel."
Then I woke up. Just a dream. A beautiful dream.
But in this place there could be no angels. There
was only work, hunger and fear.
A couple of days later, I was walking around the
camp, around the barracks, near the barbed-wire
fence where the guards could not easily see. I was
alo ne. On the other side of the fence, I spotted
someone; a young girl with light, almost luminous
curls. She was half-hidden behind a birch tree. I
glanced around to make sure no one saw me. I called
to her softly in German.
"Do you have something eat?" She didn't understand.
I inched closer to the fence and repeated my
question in Polish. She stepped forward. I was
thin and gaunt, with rags wrapped around my feet,
but the girl looked unafraid. In her eyes, I saw
life. She pulled an apple from her woolen jacket
and threw it over the fence. I grabbed the fruit
and, as I started to run away, I heard her say
faintly, "I'll see you tomorrow."
I returned to the same spot by the fence at the same
time every day. She was always there with something
for me to eat -- a hunk of bread or, better yet, an
apple. We didn't dare speak or linger. To be
caught would mean death for us both. I didn't know
any-thing about her except that she understood
Polish and seemed to me to be just a kind farm girl.
What was her name? Why was she risking her life
for me? Hope was in such short supply, and this
girl on the other side of the fence gave me some, as
nourishing in its way as the bread and apples.
Nearly seven months later, my brothers and I were
crammed into a coal car and shipped to
Theresienstadt camp in Czechoslovakia.
"Don't return," I told the girl that day. "We're
leaving."
I turned toward the barracks and didn't look back,
didn't even say good-bye to the girl whose name I'd
never learned ... the girl with the apples.
We were in Theresienstadt for three months. The war
was winding down and Allied forces were closing in,
yet my fate seemed sealed. On May 10, 1945, I was
scheduled to die in the gas chamber at 10:00 AM.
In the quiet of dawn, I tried to prepare myself .
So many times death seemed ready to claim me, but
somehow I'd survived. Now, it was over. I thought
of my parents. At least, I thought, we will be
reunited.
At 8 A.M. there was a commotion. I heard shouts,
and saw people running every which way through camp.
I caught up with my brothers.
Russian troops had liberated the camp! The gates
swung open. Everyone was running, so I did too.
Amazingly, all of my brothers had survived; I'm not
sure how. But I knew that the girl with the apples
had been the key to my survival. In a place where
evil seemed triumphant, one person's goodness had
saved my life, had given me hope in a place where
there was none. My mother had promised to send me
an angel, and the angel had come.
Eventually I made my way to England where I was
sponsored by a Jewish charity, put up in a hostel
with other boys who had survived the Holo caust and
trained in electronics. Then I came to America,
where my brother Sam had already moved.
I served in the U. S. Army during the Korean War,
and returned to New York City after two years. By
August 1957 I'd opened my own electronics repair
shop. I was starting to settle in.
One day, my friend Sid who I knew from England
called me. "I've got a date. She's got a Polish
friend. Let's double date."
A blind date? Nah, that wasn't for me. But Sid
kept pestering me, and a few days later we headed up
to the Bronx to pick up his date and her friend,
Roma. I had to admit, for a blind date this wasn't
so bad. Roma was a nurse at a Bronx hospital. She
was kind and smart. Beautiful, too, with swirling
brown curls and green, almond-shaped eyes that
sparkled with life.
The four of us drove out to Coney Island. Roma was
easy to talk to, easy to be with. Turned out she
was wary of blind dates too! We were both just
doing our friends a favor. We took a stroll on the
boardwalk, enjoying the salty Atlantic breeze, and
then had dinner by the shore. I couldn't remember
having a better time.
We piled back into Sid's car, Roma and I sharing the
backseat. As European Jews who had survived the
war, we were aware that much had been left unsaid
between us. She broached the subject, "Where were
you, during the war?" she asked softly.
"The camps," I said, the terrible memories still
vivid, the irreparable loss. I had tried to forget.
But you can never forget.
She nodded. "My family was hiding on a farm in
Germany, not far from Berlin," she told me. "My
father knew a priest, and he got us Aryan papers."
I imagined how she must have suffered too, fear, a
constant companion. And yet here we were, both
survivors, in a new world.
"There was a camp next to the farm." Roma continued.
"I saw a boy there and I would throw him apples
every day."
What an amazing coincidence that she had helped some
other boy. "What did he look like? I asked.
He was tall. Skinny. Hungry. I must have seen him
every day for six months."
My heart was racing. I couldn't believe it. This
couldn't be.
"Did he tell you one day not to come back because he
was leaving Schlieben?" Roma looked at me in
amazement.
"Yes."
"That was me!"
I was ready to burst with joy and awe, flooded with
emotions. I couldn't believe it. My angel.
"I'm not letting you go," I said to Roma. And in
the back of the car on that blind date, I proposed
to her. I didn't want to wait.
" You're crazy!" she said. But she invited me to
meet her parents for Shabbat dinner the following
week. There was so much I looked forward to
learning about Roma, but the most important things I
always knew: her steadfastness, her goodness. For
many months, in the worst of circumstances, she had
come to the fence and given me hope. Now that I'd
found her again, I could never let her go. That
day, she said yes.
And I kept my word. After nearly 50 years of
marriage, two children and three grandchildren, I
have never let her go.
Herman Rosenblat Miami Beach, Florida.
This is a true story and you can find out more by
googling Herman Rosenblat as he was bar mitzvahed at
age 75. This story is being made into a movie
called "The Fence"
http://www.atlanticoverseaspictures.com/