The Last Eyewitnesses: Children of the Holocaust Speak: by Jakub Gutenbaum, Agnieszka Latala, Fay Bussgang, Julian

By Jakub Gutenbaum, Agnieszka Latala, Fay Bussgang, Julian Bussgang, Simon Cygielski

The memoirs of Jews who have been young ones throughout the Nazi career of Poland This booklet serves as a memorial to family who don't actually have a grave, in addition to a tribute to those that risked their lives and households to avoid wasting a Jewish baby. a large choice of stories in the course of the Nazi profession of Poland are comparable with wrenching simplicity and candor, studies that illustrate horrors and deprivation, but in addition current examples of braveness and compassion. those recollections-whether of hiding in forests or camouflaged bunkers, battling with teams of partisans, enduring the horrors of focus camps, or dwelling in worry lower than disguised identities-serve as eloquent testimony to the intensity, variety, and richness of humanity less than siege and provide a strong lesson for destiny generations. Written through those who remained in Poland after the warfare, those money owed show a superb immediacy; the authors will not be faraway from the surroundings within which those stories happened. The mental effect on those baby survivors and the problems they encountered even after the struggle are very poignant. The passing years have introduced urgency to the booklet of those tales, as those that wrote them are the final surviving eyewitnesses of those tumultuous occasions.

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I answered astutely that I was waiting for my mother, even though she wasn’t there, of course. ” They came back once—I was still sitting there. A second time—I was still sitting. ” They took me to the town hall, to the mayor. The mayor was a Volksdeutscher; I think his name was Majewski. I believe this happened after all the Jewish transports had gone. I don’t know what year it was then. The mayor got the idea to send me to a home for the elderly, so that I could wait out the worst period there.

I was scared to turn around. The German grabbed me by the arm and turned me around to face him. ], I answered. ] I didn’t run. I walked (this German was supposedly the butcher of Mie˛dzyrzec). In 1944 the Russians entered. Some time before this, when the front was approaching and there was nothing to eat, the nuns handed me over, as the oldest of the girls, as a servant to a woman teacher. I was twelve years old already. The story about the teacher is a separate matter. It is sad, colorful, and long.

She gave me two addresses—one of the Israeli Embassy and 34 the last eyewitnesses the other of the Jewish Committee. She told me to write to the Jewish Committee for money for the ticket to Warsaw. She advised me that once I was in Warsaw, I should not go to the committee but to the embassy. I wrote, telling them where I was. I got an immediate response and money for the ticket. They wrote me to report to the committee. To tell the truth, I did not know the difference between these two institutions.

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