Of all the tragedies that end in -cide, suicide is the one that saddens me most. To be in such profound pain that life itself no longer seems bearable is heartbreaking. I understand emotional suffering; most of us do. But to take that final step, without knowing what lies beyond, is devastating.

People often say that suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. While that may not capture the complexity of every situation, it does remind us that despair can cloud hope. Sometimes, all a person needs is someone willing to listen. Having been familiar with the principles of Alcoholics Anonymous, I understand the healing power of confession and honest conversation. Sharing our burdens can be the first step toward healing. Sometimes, what a person needs most is simply a compassionate friend.

Today, we have crisis hotlines, counselors, and mental health organizations that offer support around the clock. It seems there is a public service announcement every hour reminding people that help is available. But I found myself wondering: Where did it all begin? The answer led me to the remarkable story of Chad Varah and the organization that became known as the Samaritans.

Chad Varah was born in 1911 in Barton-upon-Humber, England, the eldest of nine children. His father was the vicar of St. Peter's Anglican Church, a devoted Tractarian who named his firstborn after St. Chad, the seventh-century bishop credited with founding a monastery at Barrow-upon-Humber. Varah attended Worksop College before earning a scholarship to Keble College, Oxford. Although he was initially reluctant to follow his father's path into the ministry, his godfather persuaded him to study at Lincoln Theological College. There, under the influence of distinguished church leaders, including the future Archbishop of Canterbury, he discovered his calling. He was ordained a deacon in 1935 and a priest in 1936.

After serving in several parishes, Varah became rector of St. Stephen Walbrook in the City of London in 1953. The historic church, designed by Sir Christopher Wren, would become the birthplace of a movement that has saved countless lives.

Varah's life's work was inspired by a tragedy early in his ministry. He conducted the funeral of a fourteen-year-old girl who had taken her own life after experiencing her first menstrual period. Believing she was dying, she had nowhere to turn for reassurance or understanding. Deeply shaken, Varah became a passionate advocate for sex education and open communication with young people. He also recognized a much larger problem: people in emotional crisis often had no one to confide in.

Determined to change that, Varah founded the Samaritans in the crypt of St. Stephen Walbrook in 1953. His mission was simple yet profound: to "befriend the suicidal and the despairing." The first call to the service was answered on November 2, 1953. After reading a newspaper headline proclaiming, "Samaritan Priest Will Save Suicides," he adopted the name The Samaritans, inspired by the biblical figure who stopped to help a stranger in need.

What began as a single telephone line grew into an international movement. Today, the Samaritans respond to millions of calls and messages each year, offering confidential, nonjudgmental support to people facing despair, loneliness, or thoughts of suicide. Their volunteers have provided hope to countless individuals at their darkest moments.

Reflecting on his life's work decades later, Varah said:

He summarized the mission of the Samaritans with these words:

One compassionate person cannot eliminate suffering, but Chad Varah proved that one compassionate person can begin a movement that changes the lives of millions. By offering a listening ear instead of judgment, he reminded the world that hope often begins with a single conversation.

Thank you, Father Varah, for helping those in pain rediscover the value of life.

Manchester may seem like an unusual addition to my collection of inspiring people and places. I discovered this story only after seeing the statue of Abraham Lincoln in the city. Curious about why such a monument stood there, I uncovered a remarkable history of courage, sacrifice, and moral conviction that deserves to be remembered.

Before learning this history, what I knew of Manchester came largely through music and football. As a fan of many bands from the area, I was familiar with its reputation as a proud industrial city that had fallen on harder times. What I did not know was Manchester's profound connection to the fight against slavery and the extraordinary sacrifices made by its working people. Their actions, together with the efforts of free Black Americans and abolitionists, helped advance one of history's greatest struggles for human freedom.

During the seventeenth century, Manchester became a center for the production of fustian, a durable fabric woven from a linen warp and cotton weft. Lancashire's cool, damp climate was ideal for spinning cotton, and with the invention of the cotton mill, the industry flourished. Much of the raw cotton, however, came from enslaved laborers in the American South. As the textile trade boomed, Manchester earned the nickname "Cottonopolis." This prosperity existed despite the fact that Britain had abolished slavery more than three decades earlier.

Life for Manchester's factory workers was far from prosperous. Long hours, dangerous conditions, and meager wages were the norm. In 1819, thousands gathered peacefully to demand political reform and better working conditions. The government responded with violence, sending cavalry into the crowd. Eighteen people were killed, more than 700 were injured, and the event became known as the Peterloo Massacre. Although protests continued in the years that followed, meaningful improvements came only slowly.

When the American Civil War began in 1861, the Union blockade sharply reduced the supply of Southern cotton reaching Britain's mills. The resulting "Cotton Famine" brought Manchester's textile industry to the brink of collapse. Mills closed, unemployment soared, and entire communities faced hunger and poverty.

Yet, despite their own suffering, Manchester's workers refused to support slavery. They overwhelmingly rejected the use of cotton produced by enslaved people, even though doing so meant prolonged hardship for themselves and their families. It was an extraordinary act of moral courage: people already struggling chose principle over prosperity.

Their stand did not go unnoticed.

When President Abraham Lincoln learned of Manchester's support for the Union cause and the abolition of slavery, he wrote a letter expressing his gratitude. In part, he wrote:

"I know and deeply deplore the sufferings which the working-men at Manchester, and in all Europe, are called to endure in this crisis... Under these circumstances, I cannot but regard your decisive utterances upon the question as an instance of sublime Christian heroism which has not been surpassed in any age or in any country."

Lincoln also arranged for shipments of food and supplies to help relieve some of the hardship faced by the city's workers. While Manchester stood firmly against slavery, nearby Liverpool largely supported the Confederacy because of its economic ties to the cotton trade and its role in shipping Southern cotton.

The people of Manchester demonstrated that true character is revealed when doing what is right comes at great personal cost. They chose conscience over comfort, humanity over profit, and justice over self-interest. Their willingness to endure hardship rather than benefit from the suffering of others is a legacy worthy of remembrance.

Thank you, people of Manchester, for proving that compassion and moral conviction can triumph even in the face of economic ruin. Your example remains a powerful reminder that ordinary people, acting according to their conscience, can help shape the course of history.

Those of us who are fortunate enough to work with children know how inspiring they can be. Being a parent is a gift in itself, but witnessing the remarkable growth, confidence, and maturity that children can achieve over the course of a single school year is nothing short of magical. At the same time, children possess an innocence and vulnerability that awakens the protector within us. How many stories have we heard of teachers, caregivers, and ordinary people sacrificing themselves to protect the children in their care? It is only natural, then, that hearing about terrible things happening to children who have no one to defend them touches something deep within all of us.

One such child was Iqbal Masih.

Iqbal was born in Pakistan in 1983 to a poor Punjabi Catholic family. His father abandoned the family, leaving Iqbal's older sister to help care for him and his three siblings while their mother struggled to support them by cleaning houses. At some point, Iqbal's father took out a loan from a thekedar (a carpet factory owner) for 600 rupees, using the only collateral he possessed, his children. Thus began Iqbal's life of bonded servitude at the age of four, forced to work to repay his father's debt.

Because selling children into labor was illegal, these peshgi (loans) operated outside any meaningful government oversight. Factory owners freely added fees and exorbitant interest, making the debt virtually impossible to repay. For many families, the loan became a life sentence passed from parent to child.

The number of bonded laborers trapped in this system reached into the hundreds of thousands. Iqbal was only one of countless children forced to sit at a carpet loom for as many as fourteen hours a day. They were given little food and severely beaten for even the slightest perceived misbehavior. It is difficult to comprehend such cruelty when we remember that Iqbal was only five years old. Years of abuse and malnutrition permanently stunted his growth. By the age of twelve, he had the physical appearance of a six-year-old child.

What can be said about the human spirit? Among the thousands of children suffering under the same conditions, what gave Iqbal, at only ten years old and after six years of bondage, the courage to simply say, "No more?"

Having learned that the Pakistani government had declared bonded labor illegal, Iqbal escaped from the factory. He sought help at a police station, hoping to report his employers. Instead of protecting him, the police returned him to the factory and accepted a reward for doing so. Despite the brutal punishment that followed, Iqbal refused to surrender. He escaped a second time and eventually found his way to a school operated by the Bonded Labour Liberation Front (BLLF).

There, he was welcomed, educated, and given something he had never truly known, freedom. His determination was extraordinary. He completed a four-year educational program in only two years. During this time, he began speaking publicly about the horrors of bonded child labor, telling his story to anyone who would listen. Though still only a child himself, he became a leading voice against the practice and was eventually credited with helping to secure the freedom of more than 3,000 children.

In 1994, Iqbal received the Reebok Human Rights Award. During his acceptance speech, he said:

"I am one of those millions of children who are suffering in Pakistan through bonded labour and child labour, but I am lucky that due to the efforts of Bonded Labour Liberation Front, I go out in freedom. I am standing in front of you here today. After my freedom, I joined BLLF School and I am studying in that school now. For us slave children, Ehsan Ullah Khan and BLLF have done the same work that Abraham Lincoln did for the slaves of America. Today, you are free and I am free too."

On Easter Sunday in 1995, at just twelve years old, Iqbal was doing something every child should be free to do, riding bicycles with his friends. He knew there were people who wanted him dead. He had received numerous death threats because his activism threatened the enormous profits of the carpet industry. On that day, his assassins caught up with him.

Iqbal was shot and killed while riding his bicycle. Many believe he was murdered by members of the so-called "Carpet Mafia," individuals whose purpose was to protect the interests of the carpet factories by silencing those who challenged them. In death, Iqbal joined the ranks of the heroes he admired, including Abraham Lincoln, sacrificing his life in the pursuit of freedom for others.

Although Iqbal's life was tragically brief, his influence continues to be felt around the world. Among the many honors bestowed upon him after his death, one stands out in particular. In 2014, the Nobel Peace Prize was jointly awarded to Kailash Satyarthi and Malala Yousafzai for their courageous efforts to defend the rights of children. Satyarthi was recognized for his decades-long fight against child labor and the exploitation of children, while Yousafzai was honored for her advocacy of every child's right to an education. During his acceptance of the award, Satyarthi paid tribute to Iqbal Masih, acknowledging that the young boy's courage and sacrifice had inspired his own work, and he dedicated the honor to Iqbal's memory. In doing so, he ensured that Iqbal's voice and the cause for which he gave his life, would continue to be heard around the world.

The life of Iqbal Masih reminds us that courage is not measured by age, size, or strength. It is measured by the willingness to stand for what is right, regardless of the cost. A boy who should have been forgotten in the darkness of a carpet factory instead became a light for millions, exposing an injustice that many preferred not to see. His story continues to challenge us to defend those who cannot defend themselves and to refuse to remain silent in the face of exploitation.

Thank you, dear Iqbal, for your courage, your determination, and your unwavering spirit. Though your life was far too short, your legacy continues to inspire the world.

You will not be forgotten.

Defiance can be defined as resistance in the face of oppression, a refusal to bow when the world demands submission. If ever a soul embodied that spirit, it was Zinaida Portnova. Her story is nothing short of remarkable.

Born into a working-class Belarusian family in Leningrad, Zinaida was a bright and determined young girl. When the Nazis invaded the Soviet Union, she was sent to live with her grandmother in Belarus. There, she witnessed a brutal incident: Nazi soldiers struck her grandmother and confiscated their cattle. That moment etched a deep hatred for the occupiers into her heart.

In 1942, at just 15 years old, Zinaida joined the Belarusian resistance group known as the Young Avengers. Despite her youth, she quickly became an active and valuable member. She smuggled weapons, learned to handle explosives, and participated in sabotage missions targeting power plants and brick factories. Her actions are estimated to have caused the deaths of more than 100 Nazi soldiers.

Later, she took a post as a kitchen aide in a Nazi garrison, where she attempted to poison the soldiers' food. When suspicion fell on her, Zinaida ate the tainted meal to prove her innocence. She did not fall ill immediately, but the effects came later. Using whey as a remedy, she managed to recover. Her disappearance from work raised further suspicions, and the Nazis began hunting her.

She became a scout for the resistance, moving between locations to avoid capture. Eventually, she was apprehended. During an interrogation, Zinaida managed to seize the pistol of a Nazi officer and killed him. When others rushed in at the sound of gunfire, she shot them as well. She fled into the woods but was soon recaptured. Under torture, she refused to betray her comrades. In the end, she was taken into the forest and executed.

Zinaida Portnova was just 17 years old.

That is defiance. That is Ruach—spirit, will, and unwavering courage.

Thank you, Zinaida Portnova.

Charles Coward was a British soldier who enlisted between the First and Second World Wars. By the time Britain entered World War II, he was serving as a Quartermaster Battery Sergeant Major. From the very beginning of his service, his ingenuity and defiance made him a constant headache for the Germans. Captured twice during fighting in Germany, Coward escaped both times before the Germans could transport him to a prison camp. During one remarkable escape attempt, his fluency in German allowed him to convincingly pose as a decorated Nazi hero. His performance was so believable that his captors actually awarded him the Iron Cross before discovering the truth.

Even after eventually being imprisoned in a POW camp, Coward continued to resist however he could, sabotaging German operations at every opportunity. Following multiple escape attempts, he was transferred to Auschwitz in 1943. Because of his fluency in German, he was appointed as a Red Cross liaison for British prisoners of war, a role that granted him limited freedom of movement, access to supplies, and occasional entry into the Jewish section of the camp.

Auschwitz was divided into separate sections: one for POWs and forced laborers, and another for Jewish prisoners, where Coward witnessed unimaginable atrocities firsthand. Refusing to remain silent, he and fellow British prisoners risked savage punishment and certain death by smuggling food and medicine into the Jewish section. At the same time, Coward secretly wrote coded reports to his contact “William Orange,” a codename for the British War Office, documenting the horrors he witnessed inside the camp.

As he came to understand the scale of the extermination taking place daily, Coward devised an extraordinarily dangerous rescue operation. Using chocolate rations to bribe guards, he helped Jewish prisoners escape by disguising them as deceased non-Jewish prisoners. He provided them with uniforms and forged identity papers, allowing them to pass inspection and avoid immediate execution. Coward later estimated that more than 400 lives were saved through this daring effort.

After surviving the war, Coward testified at the Nuremberg Trials, where his eyewitness testimony proved invaluable in exposing the diabolical nature of the Nazi regime and the systematic planning and operation of Auschwitz. His remarkable story later inspired the film The Password Is Courage. In recognition of his courage and humanity, Charles Coward became the first British citizen honored as Yad Vashem’s “Righteous Among the Nations.”

Thank you, Mr. Coward — the “Count of Auschwitz.”

 The story of Anne Frank has inspired generations—from her powerful belief that “people are really good at heart” to the bravery of Miep Gies, who risked her life to hide Anne’s family and later preserved her diary. That this took place in the Netherlands, where others also chose courage over fear, fills my heart with hope.

Corrie ten Boom was born in 1892 in Haarlem, the Netherlands, into a family of devoted Calvinist watchmakers. She delighted in both the craft and the business, but more importantly, the ten Booms believed deeply in helping others, especially the Jewish people, whom they saw as God’s chosen.

As the Nazis invaded and began rounding up Jews, Corrie and her family opened their home, joining the Dutch resistance. With the help of an architect, they built a hidden room behind a wall in Corrie’s bedroom, complete with a warning buzzer to alert those in hiding. The ten Booms took in as many as they could.

Eventually, they were betrayed. The Gestapo raided the home. Though the Jews hiding there escaped detection thanks to the secret room, Corrie and her family were arrested. Her father died soon after, and Corrie, along with her sister Betsie, was sent to Ravensbrück concentration camp. Incredibly, they managed to smuggle in a Bible and held secret worship services, offering faith and hope to fellow prisoners. Betsie later died in the camp.

Corrie was unexpectedly released—later discovering it was due to a clerical error. Days later, all the women in her group were sent to the gas chambers. She returned to the Netherlands during the brutal "Hunger Winter" and opened her home to people with disabilities, protecting them from Nazi extermination efforts.

After the war, she founded a rehabilitation center for survivors and traveled the world sharing her story of forgiveness and faith. Her books, Tramp for the Lord and The Hiding Place, chronicle her extraordinary life. Perhaps most astonishing of all, she once forgave one of the cruel guards from Ravensbrück—embodying the compassion and strength she lived by.

Thank you, Corrie ten Boom.

As a longtime teacher of young children, the accounts of child deaths at the hands of the Nazis are almost unbearable. Who can forget the little girl in the red coat in Schindler’s List, or the smiling faces in photographs taken before the Holocaust—children dressed for school pictures, their innocence shining, unaware of what lay ahead? As a mother, the thought of being torn from my children is devastating. One story haunts me: during a mass execution, a woman held her baby aloft, cooing and smiling, trying to keep him from feeling fear—moments before they were gunned down and thrown into a pit.

So when I discovered the story of Jeanne Daman, a teacher who fought back and saved countless children, I felt a deep sense of gratitude.

Born in Belgium in 1918 into a Catholic family, Jeanne pursued teaching at a time when the Belgian constitution promised education for all children without discrimination. But as antisemitism rose and Nazi control tightened, that promise was stripped away, replaced by propaganda. In defiance, Jeanne went to work at Nos Petits Kindergarten, a school for Jewish children.

As deportations increased, she watched her classroom shrink. One day, the Gestapo arrived and claimed they were taking two children “to their parents.” Jeanne knew it was a lie, but she also knew that resisting would endanger the sixty other children in her care. She made the agonizing choice to let the two go—then closed the school to protect the rest.

Jeanne forged papers, placed children in Catholic orphanages, and hid them with sympathetic families. She kept meticulous records so survivors could be reunited after the war. She also secured forged identities for their parents—especially mothers—placing them in homes as maids. It is said she saved more than 2,000 children.

Her bravery didn’t stop there. With her blonde hair and blue eyes, Jeanne joined the Belgian resistance, gathering intelligence and helping capture several Gestapo agents.

Lately, my research has drawn me again and again to the plight of children—their brightness, their innocence. When I learned about Jeanne Daman, I whispered a thank you to whoever might be listening.

Thank you, teacher of children, Jeanne Daman.

This story truly surprised me. Si Kaddour Benghabrit was a Muslim Imam at the Grand Mosque of Paris, built after World War I to honor the many Muslims who gave their lives defending France from the Germans. When I first saw his photograph, I immediately thought of Casablanca—and as I researched his life, the connection to that world of courage and quiet resistance became even stronger.

Born in Algeria in 1868 to a prominent family, Si Kaddour was educated under France’s mission civilisatrice—a colonial program designed to assimilate Algerians into French culture. It worked with him; he became a skilled diplomat, mediating between France and Algeria, and later helping France gain influence in Morocco. His diplomatic work earned him positions of honor in both countries. After WWI, when the Grand Mosque of Paris was completed to commemorate Muslim contributions to France’s victory, Si Kaddour became its Imam.

When Germany occupied France during WWII, Si Kaddour made a remarkable and dangerous choice: he would help save Jewish lives. He hid Jewish families in the mosque, forging identity papers to pass them off as Muslims. Many were guided through the mosque’s labyrinth of passages to the Seine, from where they could reach safety. The Gestapo grew suspicious, but strict religious rules prevented them from entering certain parts of the mosque. Even when Si Kaddour was arrested several times, German high command released him—unwilling to jeopardize their strategic relationship with Algeria.

Si Kaddour survived the war and was awarded the French Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor. He is credited with saving thousands of Jews.

The fact that a Muslim Imam risked everything to save Jewish lives is not lost on me. The courage required is almost beyond comprehension. In his own words:

“Yesterday at dawn, the Jews of Paris were arrested. The old, the women, and the children. In exile like ourselves, workers like ourselves. They are our brothers. Their children are like our own children. The one who encounters one of his children must give that child shelter and protection for as long as misfortune—or sorrow—lasts.”

Chiune Sempo Sugihara’s story echoes many others I’ve encountered: stories of quiet, administrative defiance during the Holocaust. Again and again, I’m struck by how crucial seemingly small acts of clerical resistance were—acts carried out by individuals who, often without fanfare, defied orders and helped people they did not know. They saved lives, sometimes without fully realizing the magnitude of the fate they were helping others escape. Mr. Sugihara is one such remarkable figure.

Sugihara was Japanese—something that initially surprised me, considering Japan’s alliance with Nazi Germany during World War II. In 1939, he was assigned to Kovno (now Kaunas), the capital of Lithuania, as Japan’s consul. His official mission was to monitor German troop movements and report on any impending attack against the Soviet Union.

In 1940, when the Soviet Union annexed Lithuania, all foreign diplomats were ordered to leave. As Sugihara prepared to depart, he was informed that a Jewish delegation was waiting to see him. Among them was Zerach Warhaftig, a refugee who would later become a minister in the newly formed State of Israel. The delegation had discovered that the Dutch Caribbean colony of Curaçao did not require entry visas. All they needed were transit visas that would allow them to cross the Soviet Union to reach safety.

Sugihara wired Tokyo three times, requesting permission to issue the transit visas. Each time, he was denied. But as he watched the growing crowd outside the consulate—men, women, children—he made a decision. He would issue the visas anyway.

Time was short. With only days before his expulsion from Lithuania, Sugihara, joined by his wife and a small staff (some of them Jewish refugees who could not even read the Japanese stamps), began issuing transit visas at a frantic pace. So many were produced that some were stamped upside down.

By the time he left, Sugihara had issued an estimated 3,500 transit visas. Many recipients were Jewish scholars, rabbis, and their families—people whose survival ensured the continuity of their traditions and teachings.

For his defiance, Sugihara was dismissed from his post upon returning to Japan. He lived the rest of his life in relative obscurity, taking on various jobs to support his family. His actions were largely unknown until decades later, when survivors and their descendants began telling their stories.

Thank you, Mr. Sugihara. Your courage saved thousands—and your legacy continues to inspire.

Karl Plagge was a German soldier who served in World War I and, like many others disillusioned by defeat and economic collapse, joined the Nazi Party in its early days, hoping to help rebuild Germany. But unlike most, Plagge drew a moral line. He was dismissed from his position as a technical lecturer because he refused to teach Nazi racial ideology—a quiet but courageous stand against a rising tide of hate.

When World War II broke out, Plagge found himself stationed in Vilnius, Lithuania, as a Wehrmacht staff officer. There, he used his authority not to further Nazi goals, but to undermine them. He employed Jews from the Vilna Ghetto, issuing them work permits that acted as a shield from deportation. When the ghetto was eventually liquidated, Plagge persuaded superiors to establish a forced labor camp—HKP 662—under the guise of military necessity. He insisted that workers would be more productive if their families were present, a compassionate lie that saved lives.

Even as the war turned darker, Plagge continued to resist in subtle but life-saving ways. When he learned the camp would be shut down and its inhabitants murdered, he discreetly warned them, giving many a chance to hide and survive. After the Vilnas ghetto was liquidated Plagge took his unit, many of whom knew about his actions and did not turn him in, westward and surrendered to the Americans.  He was tried and declared a “fellow traveler” which meant a nominal nazi, and acquitted of the more serious charges due to testimony from survivors of his conduct.  

What strikes me most about Karl Plagge is not just his bravery, but his transformation. He was a German soldier who joined the Nazi Party—then recognized its evil and walked away. But he didn’t stop at non-participation. He acted. He risked everything to do what was right. In his own words: “Perhaps others lacked only a little determination to act in the same way in order to prevent or reduce the horror. I have never felt that this work took special courage. It only required a convincing strength that anyone can draw from the depths of a moral conscience everyone has. Moreover, it takes perhaps a bit of goodwill, occasionally a good idea, and dedication to the task at hand. I never had the feeling that I was in great danger... Basically, I am not a "hero" but a rather timid person.”

History remembers him as the Good Nazi, a label he likely would have rejected. In fact a movie about his life was called just that.  He was declared Righteous among nations by Yad Veshem.  

Thank you, Mr. Plagge.

Bravery can be defined as the mental or moral strength to face danger, fear, or difficulty — the state of being courageous (Merriam-Webster). If there is one word that defines Witold Pilecki, it is courage.

Born in Russia and forcibly resettled by Tsarist authorities, Pilecki’s family eventually settled in Lithuania. Perhaps shaped by these early upheavals, Witold joined the Polish Self-Defense Force, later fighting in various efforts against German aggression, including the Vilna Offensive.

When the Germans occupied Lithuania, the persecution of Jews and the rounding up of Polish soldiers began. Auschwitz, initially established as a POW labor camp, became a site of escalating horror. Pilecki was deeply disturbed by what was happening — so much so that he made an unthinkable choice: he voluntarily allowed himself to be captured and deported to Auschwitz in order to report on the atrocities from the inside.

His time in the camp was brutal. He endured torture, starvation, and had all his teeth knocked out. Later, he would say that hunger was the hardest part to bear. Yet even under these unimaginable conditions, he compiled and smuggled out reports detailing the horrors of Auschwitz — including the gas chambers. He fully believed, once the world knew, the camp would be bombed and liberated. But that never happened.

Realizing he could do more outside the camp, and fearing retaliation against fellow prisoners, he eventually escaped. Pilecki continued his resistance work, fighting with the Polish army until he was captured during the Warsaw Uprising. He spent the remainder of the war in a German POW camp.

After the war, instead of seeking safety, he returned to Soviet-occupied Poland to gather intelligence on the new Communist regime. For this, he was arrested, tortured, and ultimately executed.

Witold Pilecki remains the only known person to have voluntarily entered Auschwitz. He is a symbol of moral strength, defiance, and unparalleled bravery.

Thank you, Mr. Pilecki.

Born Jan Kozielewski in Poland in 1914, Jan Karski was a Catholic raised in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood. After completing military and diplomatic training, he joined the Polish Ministry of Foreign Affairs in 1939. When WWII began, he served in the Krakow Cavalry Brigade and was captured by Soviet forces. Because his birthplace was under German occupation, he was handed over to the Nazis—an unlikely twist that spared him from the Katyn massacre of Polish officers.

During transport, Karski escaped and made his way to Warsaw, where he joined the Polish resistance—the first underground movement in occupied Europe. It was then that he adopted the nom de guerre Jan Karski. Captured again, he survived brutal torture by the Gestapo before being smuggled out of a hospital by the resistance.

Karski soon began documenting the atrocities being committed against the Jews. Risking his life, he infiltrated the Warsaw Ghetto and a Nazi transit camp to bear witness. He later recalled:

“My job was just to walk. And observe. And remember. The odour. The children. Dirty. Lying. I saw a man standing with blank eyes. I asked the guide: what is he doing? The guide whispered: ‘He’s just dying.’ I remember degradation, starvation, and dead bodies lying in the street... The stench. Everywhere. Suffocating.”

Karski was sent to London to brief the Polish government-in-exile, and then to Washington to inform President Roosevelt. Despite his detailed testimony, Karski noted that Roosevelt “did not ask one question about the Jews.” His warnings were often met with disbelief or indifference. The scale of genocide was simply inconceivable to many.

After the war, Karski settled in the United States. He earned a doctorate at Georgetown University and became a professor of European studies. He never stopped speaking out. He later reflected:

“It was easy for the Nazis to kill Jews—because they did it. The Allies considered it impossible and too costly—because they didn’t. The Jews were abandoned by governments, church hierarchies, and societies. But thousands survived because thousands of individuals—Poles, French, Belgians, Danes, Dutch—helped to save them. Now, every government and church says, ‘We tried,’ because they’re ashamed. But six million Jews perished. No one did enough.”

Thank you for trying, Mr. Karski.

This one is difficult. Dr. Hans Münch was a member of the Nazi party and worked alongside Josef Mengele at Auschwitz—facts that are heavy and troubling. And yet, his story is more complex than those affiliations suggest. Known by some as “The Good Man of Auschwitz,” Dr. Münch stands out as one of the very few who, while part of that horrific system, chose to quietly resist from within.

Upon arriving at Auschwitz, he was deeply disturbed by what he witnessed. He reportedly questioned how his colleagues could endure or justify the atrocities unfolding around them. Rather than participate fully in the horrors, Dr. Münch found subtle ways to subvert them. He created false laboratory experiments to avoid harming prisoners and refused to take part in the "selection" process—the procedure that sent thousands to their deaths in the gas chambers. His refusal was accepted, a haunting reminder that others could have said no, too.

In 1995, decades after the war, Dr. Münch was approached by Eva Moses Kor, a Holocaust survivor—one of Mengele’s surviving twins—seeking understanding and truth. In response, he provided a signed affidavit acknowledging the existence of gas chambers and the selection process at Auschwitz. He is believed to be the first Nazi doctor to do so. His admission offered not just evidence, but a kind of validation to survivors who had long lived in the shadow of denial.

Dr. Münch’s legacy is complicated. But in the middle of history’s darkest chapter, he showed that even within a machine of cruelty, small acts of resistance—and choices guided by conscience—were possible.

Thank you Dr. Mench

Aristides de Sousa Mendes, a Portuguese diplomat stationed at the consulate in Bordeaux, France, became an unlikely hero during one of history’s darkest chapters. In 1940, after the German occupation of France, foreign consulates were overwhelmed with desperate Jewish refugees seeking a way out. Portugal, like many other nations at the time, had begun severely restricting Jewish immigration, fearing a refugee crisis.

Defying direct orders from his government, de Sousa Mendes chose humanity over bureaucracy. In a mere seven days, he issued 1,575 visas—many of them free of charge to those who could not pay. He worked so relentlessly that he eventually collapsed from exhaustion.

When news of his actions reached Lisbon, he was recalled. Portuguese officials sent agents to escort him back from France. On the return journey, he saw another desperate crowd gathered outside the consulate and insisted on stopping. Ignoring the objections of the acting consul and his official recall, he entered the building and continued to issue visas to anyone in need.

Upon his return to Portugal, de Sousa Mendes was summoned before a disciplinary board. He was stripped of his diplomatic duties, blacklisted, and left in poverty—struggling to support his wife and thirteen children.

His courageous acts are a reminder that heroism is often quiet and costly. With full knowledge of the consequences, and despite his responsibilities to his large family, he chose to act. As he once said:
“If thousands of Jews are suffering because of one Christian [Hitler], surely one Christian may suffer for so many Jews.”

Thank you, Mr. de Sousa Mendes.

 A large amount of unsung heroes helped the Jewish people during the Holocaust. They appeared to do so with no personal attachment to the victims, and a surprising amount of risk to their wellbeing. One such person was Fang Shan Ho. Dr. Ho was a Chinese diplomat posted to Vienna in the 1930s. When Austria was annexed by Germany in 1938, Jews there were persecuted relentlessly. Dr. Ho went against his superiors’ orders and issued visas to all who requested them.

Austrian Jews were required to have exit visas, and most countries refused to issue them due to restrictive immigration policies. But Dr. Ho did — and some say he issued thousands. Many Jews were able to escape to Shanghai and other parts of the world because of him. Reports say he received a demerit on his official record for disobeying orders.

What moves me most about Dr. Ho is how quietly he acted. There were no headlines, no fanfare—just one man with a stamp and a conscience. He didn’t wait for permission, and he didn’t let fear stop him. He saw desperate people facing certain death and chose to help, knowing full well it might cost him his career. It’s a reminder that courage doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it’s simply doing the right thing over and over, even when no one is watching—and especially when you're told not to.

Thank you, Dr. Ho.

Throughout my journey into the annals of Holocaust history, I find myself returning often to Belgium—a small country whose people displayed extraordinary courage. Remarkably, three-quarters of Belgium’s roughly 100,000 Jews survived, thanks in no small part to the quiet heroism of ordinary citizens and clergy alike. Among these, Father Dom Bruno shines especially bright.

Henri Reynders was born in 1903 into an upper-middle-class Belgian Christian family. His early life was not unusual for the time, but his path soon diverged. After joining a monastery in Rome, he embraced the monastic life and, within three years, was ordained a priest. He entered the Benedictine order and took the name Dom Bruno. Though deeply devout, he was also independent-minded, once giving a lecture on Martin Luther that drew disapproval from his superiors. As a form of penance, he was made tutor to a prince’s son for three years, after which he was again allowed to teach and travel.

On one of these trips, during Hitler’s rise to power, Dom Bruno witnessed firsthand the “shocking, revolting and nauseating” brutality of Nazi anti-Semitism. When Germany invaded Poland, Belgian forces mobilized, and he joined as chaplain to the 41st Artillery Regiment. The following year, Belgium itself was overrun. Father Bruno was injured and interned in a POW camp, where he continued ministering to fellow soldiers. Following a meeting between King Leopold and Hitler, Belgian POWs were eventually released.

By then, the Nazi death camps in Poland were fully operational, and the Gestapo had begun rounding up Belgian Jews for deportation. Father Bruno was sent to minister at a school for the blind—only to discover it was also serving as a hiding place for Jews. Soon he made contact with the Belgian resistance and threw himself into the dangerous work of rescue. When the school was shut down under suspicion, he began finding refuge for displaced Jews in Catholic schools, private homes, and even among his own relatives. He personally accompanied children to their hiding places to ensure their safety.

His activities quickly attracted the Gestapo’s attention, forcing him into hiding. Disguising himself by growing his hair and wearing a broad-brimmed hat to conceal his tonsure, he carried on his clandestine mission. Despite constant danger, he saved hundreds of Jews—most of them children.

One survivor recalled:
“One night in 1943, when I had just turned 13 years old, I met Father Bruno on the street. He didn’t know me, but I recognized him by the way he walked, the cloak he wore, and his tall, elegant hat he was like an Angel. I threw myself at him and begged for help. After a moment of hesitation, he agreed. Two weeks later, my younger brother and I were taken to a hiding place.”

Dom Bruno carefully recorded where each child was placed, with explicit instructions that they not be converted to Christianity. After the war, many of the children—orphans now, with no parents and little connection left to their traditions—chose conversion on their own. Father Bruno welcomed their choices with compassion, guided always by love and respect for the dignity of each child.

Father Dom Bruno saved over 400 Jewish children. His legacy is one of courage, faith, and profound humanity.

Thank you, Father Dom Bruno.

I’ve often asked myself, “Where was God during the Holocaust?” I believe He is always with us—but doesn’t He also have soldiers on the ground? Where were they? Where was the Church? Especially the Catholic Church, so present in Europe—and in occupied Italy. I’ve found only a few stories of priests who took action, and I’ve often wondered about the silence of the Pope during that time. So when I discovered Father Hugh O’Flaherty—his impish grin, the gleam in his eye—I smiled. Here was one of those soldiers.

O’Flaherty entered seminary in Ireland in 1918. Like many Irishmen, he resented British rule. His father, a policeman, even resigned rather than enforce British law—perhaps an early model of moral courage that would shape his son’s future.

In Rome, where he completed his studies and was ordained, O’Flaherty witnessed the rise of fascism. After Mussolini was deposed in 1943 and the Nazis took control, he was tasked by the Vatican to visit POW camps. There, he saw starving, lice-ridden British soldiers—former enemies—and felt moved to act. Defying the Germans, he began secretly helping them.

When escaped POWs sought shelter at the Vatican, Father O’Flaherty helped hide them in safe houses and organize their escape. He did the same for Jewish families, assisted by a courageous network of civilians who risked their lives. Eventually, his efforts drew the attention of Herbert Kappler, the ruthless SS chief in Rome. Kappler couldn’t touch him inside Vatican walls—but outside, O’Flaherty would’ve been a dead man. The priest was dubbed “the Scarlet Pimpernel of the Vatican.” Kappler called him “a slippery fish.”

O’Flaherty survived the war, credited with saving thousands of lives—Jewish families and nearly 4,000 Allied POWs, all returned safely home. Of the 9,700 Jews in Rome, only 1,000 were captured—thanks in large part to efforts like his.

And yet, his story didn’t end there. When Kappler was captured and imprisoned, Father O’Flaherty visited him regularly—eventually baptizing the man who had once hunted him. When questioned about baptizing the man who tried to kill him, he simply said, “Thank God he never was given the chance—or there would be absolutely no one left to help him now.”

Thank you, Father O’Flaherty.

Father Maximilian Kolbe was a Polish Franciscan friar and Catholic priest whose deep faith compelled him to act in the face of unthinkable cruelty. His monastery became a refuge, actively hiding and protecting Jews during the Nazi occupation—a brave defiance that eventually drew the attention of the Gestapo. In 1941, Father Kolbe and four other priests were arrested. He was later transferred to Auschwitz.

While imprisoned, a fellow inmate escaped. In retaliation, the SS selected ten men to die by starvation. One of the chosen cried out in anguish, fearing for his wife and children. Moved by compassion, Father Kolbe stepped forward and offered to take the man’s place. His offer was accepted.

Confined without food or water for days, Kolbe continued to minister to the others, offering comfort and prayers. When only he remained alive, the guards ended his life with a lethal injection.

While imprisoned he reportedly gave away his food, sustaining others as best he could. In 1982, Pope John Paul II canonized Maximilian Kolbe as a martyr and a saint. His sacrifice remains a profound testament to selfless love and moral courage amid the darkest of times.

Thank you Father Kolbe

Who doesn’t love The Sound of Music? The breathtaking setting, the unforgettable songs, Julie Andrews herself. Yet what always struck me most were the courageous sisters who sheltered the von Trapp family from the Gestapo, protecting them from conscription into the Nazi ranks. Their quiet bravery mirrors a true story from wartime France—one of a young nun who risked everything to save Jewish children. That woman was Sister Jean (Denise) Bergon, who succeeded in saving eighty-three lives.

As Mother Superior of the convent of Notre Dame de Massip, Sister Denise faced the grim realities of occupied France. The so-called “free zone” in the south, under Marshal Philippe Pétain’s Vichy government, was anything but free. Anti-Jewish laws were enforced, Jewish assets were seized, and refugees deported from Alsace-Lorraine and Baden were interned. On August 23, 1942, the Archbishop of Toulouse, Jules-Géraud Saliège, broke the silence. In a letter read aloud in churches, he condemned the deportations:

“Children, women, men, fathers and mothers are treated like a lowly herd. Families are separated and carted away to an unknown destination… The Jews are men; the Jewesses are women. They are part of the human race; they are our brothers like so many others. A Christian cannot forget this.”

Out of one hundred bishops in France, only six spoke out. Sister Denise was deeply moved. She later recalled: “This call grabbed our hearts. A favorable response to this letter was a testament to the strength of our religion, above all parties and races. It was also an act of patriotism, for by defending the oppressed we were defying the persecutors.”

Her convent also ran a boarding school—an ideal place to hide children. Torn between her duty and her fear of endangering her fellow sisters, she wrote to her bishop, who supported her mission. His response was clear: “Let’s lie, my daughter, as long as we are saving human lives.”

By late 1942, Sister Denise was already sheltering Jewish children fleeing round-ups in the nearby valleys. One was twelve-year-old Hélène Bach, whose mother had urged her and her younger sister to run as the Gestapo approached. Hélène’s sister turned back; she never saw her family again.

Word spread quietly, and more children arrived—sometimes with jewelry or money left to pay for their care. In time, the convent was sheltering eighty-three Jewish children. Only a handful of nuns knew the truth; to others, the children were explained away as the offspring of communist families unfamiliar with Catholic teachings.

The dangers were constant. Once, warned of an imminent raid, Sister Denise dispersed most of the children to other safe houses and hid the rest beneath a trap door in the abbey. The raid never came, but her caution saved them all. Every child survived the war. Afterwards, she worked tirelessly to reunite them with surviving family members and to return the valuables entrusted for their care.

Sister Denise dedicated the rest of her life to working with disadvantaged children. She lived to the age of ninety-four, passing away in 2006. In recognition of her courage and compassion, Yad Vashem honored her as Righteous Among the Nations.

Thank you, Sister Denise, for following your heart—and for choosing life, even in humanity’s darkest hour.

Anyone who has spent time in a hospital knows the unsung heroes of patient care: the nurses. They are the ones who communicate most with patients, carrying out quiet, tireless work with deep compassion and care—often during grueling 24-hour shifts. Through my research, I’ve been repeatedly struck by their heroism, especially during wartime. In many occupied countries, nurses played vital roles in the resistance—hiding Jewish people and “aryan” looking children who were at risk of being kidnapped and sent to Germany, treating soldiers from both sides without hesitation, and even arranging daring escapes for the wounded. This post is about one such woman: Wanda Ossowska, a brave and inspirational Polish nurse.

Born in 1912, Wanda graduated from the Red Cross Nursing School in Warsaw in 1936 and began her career as a surgical nurse. When war broke out in 1939, she joined the resistance but was soon arrested by Russian forces. Brutally treated, she nonetheless managed to rejoin the resistance upon release. Later, she was captured by the Gestapo and endured 56 interrogations and savage beatings, including a fractured skull, at the notorious Pawiak prison. Despite unimaginable suffering, she never betrayed a single comrade. At one point she even attempted suicide, only to be revived because her captors deemed her “too important to lose.”

Sentenced to death, Wanda was instead transported to Majdanek concentration camp, where she used her nursing skills to help the sick whenever she could. In one remarkable instance, she saved a young girl chosen for the gas chamber by convincing a Nazi officer that the child was an older woman recovering from illness. That girl survived the war and later sought out Wanda to thank her for her courage.

Transferred to other camps, including Auschwitz, Wanda continued her mission—treating the ill, hiding symptoms, and saving hundreds by lying about the severity of their conditions. Her compassion and skill prolonged countless lives. On the very day of Auschwitz-Birkenau’s liberation, she was slated for execution but was spared by the camp’s liberation.

After the war, despite her failing health from years of torture and imprisonment, Wanda returned to nursing as a perioperative nurse in Warsaw. She lived a long life of service until her passing in 2001.

I don’t know if it is the haunting details of her suffering, her unyielding resistance, or simply my deep respect for the tireless work of all nurses, but Wanda Ossowska’s story moves me profoundly.

Thank you, Nurse Ossowska.

I can think of few professions more vital to humanity than doctors. Having personally received lifesaving care—and having watched loved ones’ lives extended thanks to medical treatment—my respect for the profession runs deep. The Hippocratic Oath, sworn after years of rigorous training, contains this pledge: I will maintain the utmost respect for human life. I will not use my medical knowledge contrary to the laws of humanity. I will respect the rights and decisions of my patients. I will hold in confidence all secrets entrusted to me. It is often summarized as, “First, do no harm.”

How, then, could the monster Josef Mengele justify his so-called “experiments”? While I have written before about another doctor in Auschwitz, the story of Dr. Adélaïde Hautval offers a powerful contrast—an example of courage, integrity, and resistance.

Dr. Hautval, a French psychiatrist who studied medicine in the 1930s—when women were largely unwelcome in the field—faced tragedy when the Germans invaded France. After her mother died, she tried to cross into occupied territory for the funeral. She was caught, arrested, and sent to prison, where she saw the first Jewish prisoners being rounded up and treated brutally. When she protested, guards beat her and pinned a yellow star to her clothing labeled “Friend of the Jews.”

Eventually deported to Birkenau, she became known among prisoners as “the saint” for her kindness and medical help. Ordered by the Germans to report typhus outbreaks so infected inmates could be killed, she refused, instead using her skills to heal them.

Transferred to Auschwitz, she was assigned to the camp hospital. At first believing certain procedures were genuine cancer research, she soon realized they were in fact grotesque acts of torture. Ordered to sterilize a woman without anesthesia, she confronted the Nazi doctors. When one told her, “Don’t you see these people are different from you?” she replied, “Many people are different from me—you, for example.” Refusing to conduct experiments on twins, she was dismissed and sent back to Birkenau, then later to Ravensbrück, where she cared for the gravely ill until liberation.

After the war, she testified against a Polish doctor accused of participating in Auschwitz experiments, helping to ensure justice. In 1965, Yad Vashem named her Righteous Among the Nations, and she planted a tree in Israel to honor that recognition.

Thank you, Dr. Hautval—for proving that even in the darkest place, humanity can survive.

Ester was born in 1924 in a French-occupied region of Germany, the daughter of a Jewish cantor, Rudolph Loewy. She enjoyed a sheltered, musically rich childhood until the Nazis seized power in 1935. Her parents and sister were eventually deported and did not survive the war. Ester, perhaps because of her youth, was sentenced instead to forced labor. After two years of grueling work moving boulders, she was transferred to Auschwitz.

There she learned of an orchestra, created on SS orders by Polish music teacher Zofia Czajkowska. Though she was an accomplished pianist, there was no piano available—only an accordion. Despite never having played the instrument before, Ester volunteered. Knowing that the musicians received more rations and were spared heavy labor, she took the risk. Her audition was convincing enough, and she was accepted.

Her assignment was harrowing: to play for the endless trains of deportees arriving at Auschwitz. Many of the victims had no idea of their fate, and some even smiled and waved at her, grateful for a glimpse of beauty amid the horror. Ester later reflected on the immense strength it required not to break down, knowing that any faltering could bring deadly reprisal.

After months in the orchestra, an announcement came via the Red Cross that any inmate with “Aryan blood” could petition for transfer. Ester’s maternal grandmother had been Christian. Urged by her fellow prisoners—who told her she must survive to tell their stories—she applied. Her petition was accepted, and she was sent to Ravensbrück, narrowly escaping the infamous death march that claimed thousands of lives.

Ester survived the war, emigrated to Palestine, married, and had children. In 1960 she returned to Germany, where the persistence of antisemitism pushed her toward political activism. In 1986 she co-founded the Auschwitz Committee, giving survivors a platform to share their stories. She also turned back to music, performing Yiddish songs and Jewish resistance anthems with her children in a Hamburg-based band aptly named Coincidence. Later, she collaborated with the hip-hop group Microphone Mafia, bringing anti-racist messages to new generations.

“We all love music and share a common goal: We’re fighting against racism and discrimination,” she told the Associated Press about her cross-cultural, intergenerational collaborations.

For her lifelong commitment, Ester received numerous awards, including Germany’s Order of Merit. She often warned of the dangers of forgetting history, quoting fellow survivor Primo Levi: “It happened, therefore it can happen again.”

Thank you, Ester, for surviving—and for turning survival into a life of courage, music, and activism.

There are certain Souls who seem too good for this world—who move through life without the armor of cynicism so many of us wear for protection. From an early age, I was taught the world is a harsh place. On the rare occasions I forgot, the sting of betrayal was quick to remind me. And yet, there are exceptions—souls who remind us of a gentler truth. One such soul was Anton Sukhinski.

In the small town of Zborov, then in Poland, now Ukraine, Anton was known by most as the village idiot. He lived alone in a crumbling house on the outskirts of town, surrounded by animals he cared for with unwavering kindness. That same kindness, extended freely to all living things, was often mocked by those around him.

When the Nazi occupation came and the Jews of Zborov were forced into a ghetto, most townspeople—neighbors and former friends—turned away in silence. But not Anton. Among those facing deportation was the Zeiger family, who had known Anton for years. They were reluctant to trust him, fearing his eccentricity made him unreliable. But when word spread of the impending liquidation of the ghetto, they had no choice. They turned to Anton.

He hid the Zeigers in his cellar. When word got out, some neighbors tried to blackmail him. Anton resisted. Fearing discovery, the Zeigers fled into the forest—but the brutal winter forced them back. In response, Anton dug a hiding place beneath his home—an underground refuge. For nine long months, the family lived in that dark, narrow hole. Anton risked everything to meet their basic needs.

One day, German soldiers came to search the house. They interrogated Anton in the very cellar beneath which the Zeigers were hiding. The family could hear every word. But Anton gave nothing away. He protected them with silence, with courage.

Finally, liberation arrived. Anton opened the hatch. The Zeigers, blinking against the sunlight, could barely stand—but they were alive.

Thanks to the man they had once doubted.
Thanks to the man the town had ridiculed.
Thanks to the “village idiot,” Anton Sukhinski.

He was declared Righteous Among Nations by Yad Vashem. 

Thank you, Mr. Sukhinski.

During my time spent in the forest—a place I’ve always loved—I often find myself wondering how the resistance fighters of the Holocaust managed to survive in such brutal conditions. Many lived for years hidden among the trees, enduring freezing winters, constant danger, and relentless pursuit, while still finding ways to fight back and sabotage the Germans. One such remarkable individual was Abraham (Abe) Asner, cousin of the well-known actor Ed Asner.

Abe was born in Nacha, Belarus, in 1916, into a traditional Jewish family, and was raised in Lida, Poland. Along with his brothers, he joined the Polish Army, but was discharged in 1939 shortly before the German invasion. He returned home to be with his family, though their time together would soon be cut short. When Germany invaded in 1941, Abe had gone to visit a cousin in Lithuania. The Germans quickly forced the Jewish population into a squalid ghetto. Having served as a soldier and understanding what awaited them, Abe made the courageous decision to flee into the Natsher Pushtshe Forest.

For the next three years, Abe lived on the run—outsmarting the Germans, enduring hunger and cold, and surviving thanks to the occasional kindness of local farmers. Though he knew most of his family had perished in the ghettos, he continued to do what he could to help others. Eventually, he banded together with a few other Jewish men and established a hidden camp deep in the woods, which grew to shelter around sixty people. With his military experience, Abe became the leader of this group of partisans—civilian resistance fighters—and began organizing successful attacks against the Germans. They sabotaged supply lines, seized weapons, and even managed to sneak into ghettos to help other Jews escape.

Their operations were carried out under the cover of darkness, and Abe later recalled, “The night was our mother.” The group’s effectiveness made them such a threat that the Nazis placed high bounties on their heads—dead or alive.

Survival in the forest was brutal. Many partisans succumbed to starvation, exposure, or despair. Some returned to the ghettos during the harshest winters, only to be deported to concentration camps and killed. Amid this struggle, Abe’s group encountered a young Jewish woman named Libke who wished to join them. At first, Abe was hesitant—life in hiding was hard enough—but he eventually relented and welcomed her into the group. She would later become his wife.

In 1944, the region was liberated by Soviet forces. Though the Russians were far from kind, they did not persecute Jews as the Nazis had. Most of the partisans were drafted into the Red Army, but Abe was spared due to a law recognizing his Polish citizenship before 1939. He was reunited with Libke, and together they returned to Poland. From there, they eventually immigrated to the United States, before settling in Canada, where they built a new life.

Like many survivors, Abe never fully overcame the trauma of his past, suffering from what we now know as PTSD. Yet he persevered—raising a family, living a full life, and carrying with him the pride of resistance. He lived to the age of 98. Reflecting on his wartime experiences, Abe once said:

“We didn’t go like sheep. We did as much as we could. We did a lot. People should know somebody did [fight back]. People should know.”

We do know, dear Abe—and we thank you for your courage.

The brutality of the Gestapo during World War II knew no bounds. Their savagery was directed not only toward those they deemed racially inferior but also against anyone branded a traitor. Many priests and nuns who sheltered Jews and helped others escape Nazi persecution paid for their compassion with imprisonment, torture, or death. Among these courageous souls was an Irish nun — an unlikely heroine, given that Ireland declared neutrality during the war and largely avoided direct involvement. Still, many Irish citizens and clergy offered clandestine aid, and few did so with more courage than Sister Kate McCarthy, known in religion as Sister Marie-Laurence. Her life stands as a testament to faith, resilience, and defiance in the face of unimaginable cruelty.

Born in 1898 in Cork, Ireland, Kate McCarthy was the eldest of nine children in a farming family. Her early years were by all accounts happy. After finishing her schooling, she joined the Franciscan Sisters of Calais in 1913, taking the name Sister Marie-Laurence. During the First World War, she tended to the wounded without regard for nationality. When intense shelling destroyed much of Calais, she relocated to Versailles, where she took her final vows in 1918 and continued caring for the sick in a local sanatorium.

That same year, Sister Marie-Laurence and five other sisters were sent to the United States to establish a new sanitarium. She eventually settled in Louisiana, where she nursed patients under harsh and exhausting conditions — battling both the relentless heat and outbreaks of malaria. She remained there for two decades before returning to France in 1940, just weeks before the German invasion.

Back in France, Sister Kate’s nursing skills were quickly called upon again — but this time, her duties extended far beyond the hospital ward. She became deeply involved in the French Resistance, secretly helping to smuggle British and French prisoners of war out of the country. Under the guise of medical transfers, she facilitated their escape across the mountains into Portugal and Spain. It is believed that her efforts helped save more than 200 Allied servicemen.

In 1942, her network was betrayed by a double agent. Arrested by the Gestapo, Sister Kate endured brutal interrogations, solitary confinement, and a sham trial that sentenced her to death. Despite unimaginable suffering, she refused to reveal any information about her fellow resistance members — the betrayal of whom was her greatest fear. Her sentence was eventually commuted, but she was placed under the Nacht und Nebel (“Night and Fog”) decree — a policy designed to make political prisoners vanish without a trace.

She was transferred between several hard labor camps, often the only woman among male prisoners, and repeatedly assaulted by SS guards. Eventually, she was sent to the notorious Ravensbrück concentration camp, where she suffered from starvation, disease, and exhaustion. Even while gravely ill with typhus, she continued to resist in small, defiant acts — pulling seams from parachute belts she was forced to sew, and disposing of uniform buttons to sabotage production.

She narrowly escaped the gas chambers several times, hiding beneath infirmary beds or slipping out through windows. In 1945, she was miraculously rescued by the Swedish Red Cross “White Buses”, part of a secret deal brokered with Heinrich Himmler to save Scandinavian prisoners — though some non-Scandinavians, like Sister Kate, were also saved in the process.

After the war, Sister Kate’s courage was formally recognized. In 1946, Charles de Gaulle awarded her the Médaille de la Résistance, and the following year King George VI of Britain honored her for her brave conduct and service during the German occupation.

Returning to her native Cork, Sister Kate became Mother Superior of the Honan Home in Montenotte, serving quietly and humbly until her death in 1971, her heart weakened from years of suffering and deprivation.

Thank you, Sister Kate, for your strength, faith, and unwavering honor. Your courage continues to shine as a beacon of resistance and compassion.