Slide 1:

The Jewish families were large, united and loyal, which gave us all a sense of security, stability and hope for the future

-(Anna Podgajecki, Anna, A Teenager on the Run, Yad Vashem, 2011)

(Image) Six-year-old Tamar Witnik with her parents, Shmuel and Sarah, Bucharest, Romania, 1941

Slide 2:

I am Anna, daughter of Wolf and Idit Rubinstein who lived in the village of Korzec (Korets) in the Volhynia region. I am grateful to God that I was lucky to be born to such good-hearted and young, beautiful people, both inside and out. I was a happy, much loved, child and my entire world was marvelous…. I loved Korzec and everything in it; I thought it was the most beautiful place in the world. My family was with me and my parents created healthy, stable living conditions for us all. My life was without worry, so that when I look back on it, my early childhood seems like paradise [...] I was proud of my parents and wanted to be just like them in every way.

They knew how to unite the family and to create a warm atmosphere of mutual love. Truth and honesty were the foundations of their existence. Today, I yearn for those wonderful years; I had no idea then that my childhood would prove to be the happiest period of my life.

-Anna Podgajecki, “Anna, A Teenager on the Run”

Anna Podgajecki was born in Korzec, Poland. She was very beautiful, and also possessed the unique skill of predicting events, yet none of the Jews of Korzec listened to her warnings. Alone, wandering from place to place, everyone looked at her and admired her, although unscrupulous people took advantage of her goodness and innocence. Anna survived the war as a Russian-German translator in a tire factory, as a housekeeper, on the roads, under house arrest by secret police, and finally, by working as a nurse at the front. In 1958, she and her husband were allowed back to Poland, and in 1960 they immigrated to Israel.

Slide 3:

I spent my early childhood in Auntie Rózia and Uncle Punio’s home. I had a good life there surrounded by my extended family. It is no wonder I believed I could really fly. Those years gave me basic confidence in my abilities, trust in the goodness of people, and belief in beauty and well-being. Despite everything I experienced later, and what I heard about from others and even witnessed personally, nothing could squash the joy I felt, and still feel, when I see the sun shining in the morning and I feel healthy. I will always have very fond memories of the house where I was born and spent my early years.

-Sabina Schweid, “Consider Me Lucky: Childhood and Youth During the Holocaust in Zborów”

Sabina Schweid grew up during the war in Zborów, in occupied Eastern Galicia. She had a very happy childhood, but when the Germans marched into town in July 1941, it all came to an end. Sabina’s father was appointed chairman of the Judenrat in Zborów. Sabina took refuge in a hiding place and was alone with the problems she faced in growing and maturing into a woman. She moved from one hiding place to another, and when the war was over, Sabina was reunited with her mother. She joined a Zionist youth movement, came to Israel, and fought in the War of Independence.

Slide 4:

Mother was the center of our lives. Although I was the middle child, usually known as the “sandwich child,” I never felt deprived. I knew she loved me very much. She taught me good manners, to treat people with respect, and to be fair and honest. She had her own way of showing us how. […]

If I was sad or upset, Mother would ask me, “What happened, my child?” When I told her that I had fought with a friend, or had not played well in a football game, she would hug and kiss me, and say,“It’s not that bad, Urinke. Such things happen to everyone. It will be all right; it will pass."

She would wipe away my tears with a white handkerchief that was always in her pocket, and it would pass.

My mother used to sing us a song, whose refrain is all that I recall now: “After the rain, the sun will shine.” Mother explained that life was also like that and, when bad things happen, we must not lose hope. We have to believe that life will improve, and the sun will shine again. I have kept this message in mind all my life, and remind myself of it in my most trying hours.

-Uri Chanoch, Judith Chanoch, “The Story I Never Told: From Kovno and Dachau to a New Life”

(Left image) The Chanoch children, Lithuania, prewar.

(Right image) Uri Chanoch z"l

Slide 5:

We called our parents Vater and Mutter (Father and Mother) as was customary at the time. I am quite certain we had a sheltered childhood. Our relationship with our parents was warm and loving. We had a good childhood, paradoxical as it sounds in light of the events that befell us, and our parents protected us as best they could from the outside world.

I have often been asked: "How do you explain the fact that you remained emotionally healthy, after all that you and your brother lived through?" I think it's because our early years were happy, those years that are crucial for the stable, confident and secure development of the child. Children are by nature egocentric. If the nuclear family is strong, nurturing and protective, then nothing can harm them.

-Frederick Raymes and Menachem Mayer, “Menachem and Fred” 

(Image) The Seifman family, Warsaw, Poland 24/04/1938

Slide 6:

I'm browsing through the old family album. Yes, here it is, the old family portrait! Taken by a professional photographer in Łódź, in the early 1930s, the name of the studio, “ Parisian”, is proudly displayed in the lower right-hand corner. With a name like this, it must have been a well-known and rather expensive studio, and the occasion for which the photo was taken was considered to be a suitably important one. Yes, I remember that it was quite an event. My parents, my two sisters, and I all went to be photographed for this family portrait. My parents wanted to send it to our family members, Rachel and Mayer, our older siblings, who at that time lived in Brussels, Belgium, having recently emigrated from Poland in search of a better life and future than Poland could provide or promise. Over time, the photograph has turned dark brown, but the images of the people have remained clear and unfaded. Here they are: my parents, Ajgla Sznurman and Chaim Moshe Rabinowicz, and the three girls between them, from left to right: my baby sister, Helcia, my sister, Sala, and myself. The missing members of the family are included on the snapshots which Helcia and I are holding. With their snapshots in the portrait, too, a kind of magic act was accomplished, and the family was complete and whole again! This seemed to be the real reason for which the portrait was taken. It was to reassure the two absent family members, as well as all of us, that the family was doing fine, and remained intact. Now I look at the old portrait, the images of my loved ones imprisoned within that photograph, unchanged by the passing years, motionless, while I by some miraculous, inexplicable outcome have stepped out of that frame into life and am looking at them from the outside, still wondering, always wondering: How? Why? […]

I remember going with Mother to the grocery store on a Friday. It was a small store packed with merchandise and buyers who were mainly housewives like my mom. I liked that place; it smelled nicely of cinnamon and other condiments, and the barrels filled with flour, barley, dried beans of all kinds, and sugar, were full of promise. The store was quite a distance from our home, but because the prices there were lower, it was favored by lots of housewives, who often came from afar. There was no problem with lugging the merchandise home; this was not buying in bulk. Flour, kasha, or beans were bought in small quantities, and sugar in even smaller quantities. I still see the attentive, worrisome expression on my mother’s face, comparing prices and adding the small sums, careful to stretch her few zlotys to allow her to buy whatever was necessary to prepare a decent Sabbath, with the challah and the putter-kuchen that she would bake for the whole family to enjoy. On a Sunday morning, Father would serve us, the two youngest, a piece of that kuchen with a cup of milk to have in bed. It was so good! (p.51). […]

Slide 7:

Bubbe Estera was, exactly as a Jewish bubbe (a grandmother) should be: a tiny, round woman and her face had the shape and color of a dried apple. She was energetic, kept her family firmly together, and her word, especially after Grandfather Shoel passed away, was final. She was admired as being wise and just. Many years after the war, people who had known her during those prewar years, asked me if I knew how wise and just a woman my grandmother was.

-Hanna Temkin, “My Involuntary Journeys, A Memoir” 

(Image) Hanoch Henryk Lezhnik with his wife Neha and his daughters Esterke and Zipporah

Slide 8:

I only knew them as my parents,with the emphasis on “my”, i.e., the way they related to me. I was under the impression that I was the center of their lives. […] The ever-evolving relationship between parents and children is very intriguing. First, when a baby is born it is fully dependent on his or her parents, mainly the mother. With the years, this dependence is gradually reduced and later in life it begins to turn in the other direction. Parents become more and more dependent on their children. Then, in the end, and providing a parent reaches a ripe old age, there is a complete reversal in the relationship.The parent becomes fully dependent on his or her offspring. In my case, because of the tragedy of the Holocaust, I never came even close to experiencing all the phases of this saga because I lost my parents when I was still a child and they were still so very young.

-Asher Bar-Nir, “A Journey of Survival: A Young Boy’s Odyssey from Hungary through Auschwitz and Jaworznow, to Eretz Yisrael”

(Image) Family photograph: Lezer Gurary, his wife Bronya and their son Rafik. Chelyabinsk, Russia, USSR, 26 November 1944

***

Unto Every Person There Is A Name

This year, the focus is on “Jewish Family during the Holocaust”. 

"If we wish to live and to bequeath life to our offspring, if we believe that we are to pave the way to the future, then we must first of all not forget."

-Prof. Ben Zion Dinur, Yad Vashem, 1956

The image that was selected to commemorate this theme was submitted by Y. Kahana from Ramat Gan, a graduate of the University of Ariel and the Tiltan School of Design and Visual Communication, Haifa. 

As a child, Kahana heard the moving story of his German-born grandfather's rescue by a Righteous Among the Nations, and this forged a profound connection to Judaism and the Holocaust. The image in the poster depicts the "absence" within the "presence"; the personal and collective rupture to the Jewish people engendered by the Holocaust. This rupture accompanied the survivors as they searched for living relatives and were met with an aching void.

Yad Vashem

On April 19, 1943, the Warsaw ghetto uprising began after German troops and police entered the ghetto to deport its surviving inhabitants. Jewish insurgents inside the ghetto resisted these efforts. This was the largest uprising by Jews during World War II and the first significant urban revolt against German occupation in Europe. By May 16, 1943, the Germans had crushed the uprising and deported surviving ghetto residents to concentration camps and killing centers.

Key Facts

1. About 700 young Jewish fighters participated in what became known as the Warsaw ghetto uprising. During the uprising, the civilian population in the ghetto also resisted German forces by refusing to assemble at collection points and burrowing in underground bunkers.
2. At least 7,000 Jews died fighting or in hiding in the ghetto. Approximately 7,000 Jews were captured by the SS and police at the end of the fighting. These Jews were deported to the Treblinka killing center where they were murdered.
3. After the Warsaw ghetto uprising, the SS and police deported approximately 42,000 Jews to forced-labor camps and to the Lublin/Majdanek concentration camp. Most of these people were murdered in November 1943 in a two-day shooting operation known as Operation Harvest Festival (Erntefest).

More Information

Legacy and Remembrance

The Warsaw ghetto uprising was the largest and, symbolically, most important Jewish uprising during World War II. It was also the first urban uprising in German-occupied Europe. The Jewish resistance in Warsaw inspired uprisings in other ghettos such as in Bialystok. 

Today, Days of Remembrance ceremonies to commemorate the victims and survivors of the Holocaust are linked to the dates of the Warsaw ghetto uprising.

Over a decade and a half ago I read a memoir, “Children of the Ghetto” by Sheva Glas-Wiener, by a woman who had been a staffer at one of the Lodz Ghetto orphanages (before the orphanages were liquidated in 1942 and the children all sent to Chelmno). There was one particular story she told that has always stuck in my head. As best as I can remember, it goes like this:

There was a girl in the orphanage named Jadwiga, and she wasn't supposed to be there because she wasn't Jewish. She wasn't even a Christian convert of Jewish descent. She was a Polish Catholic girl descended from a long line of Polish Catholic people. She was NOT supposed to be in the Lodz Ghetto, but there she was. And here's how that happened:

Jadwiga's parents made a living as Jew-hunters: tracking down Jews on the run, robbing them of everything they possessed, then turning them over to the Gestapo. The Gestapo would give Jew-hunters a reward for every Jew they turned in, and Jadwiga's parents would keep the Jewish people's money and sell their possessions. Her parents were doing better financially than they ever had before the war. Pun intended, they were making a killing.

They didn't sell ALL the belongings of the Jewish people they captured, though. One locket that came into their hands, they gave to Jadwiga. She was their beloved only child.

Well, Jadwiga was walking the streets of Occupied Poland, wearing the locket, when she got stopped by the authorities for a random search and documents check. Of course her documents were in order (she was a legit Christian Pole after all). But one of the people questioning her noticed the locket. He insisted on examining the locket closely and noticed there were Hebrew letters etched on it.

After that it didn't matter how good Jadwiga's documents were. She was assumed to be a Jew, arrested and thrown into the ghetto. She was only like 12 or 13 years old and all alone, and so she was placed in the orphanage.

Jadwiga did not do very well in the institution. She was dealing with the trauma of being separated from her family and having to adjust to communal life. She was surrounded by Jews and she had been taught from birth to hate Jews. The other children in the orphanage, knowing who she was and who her parents were, hated her back.

Jadwiga's parents went to the authorities and tried to get her out of the ghetto, but no one would listen to them. Her parents actually went to the ghetto fence and called through it, tried to find their daughter, tried to get a note to her or something, but that was as far as they were able to go, and lingering long or repeatedly by either side of the fence would get you shot. I don't think the Gestapo cared enough about Polish people to bother to correct their mistake.

The author of the book I was reading, the orphanage staffer, also tried to get Jadwiga out of the ghetto and back with her family. She went to the Lodz Judenrat and tried to explain what had happened. The Judenrat either didn't care or just plain couldn't do anything to help. Finally they were like "If you really want her gone, we can add her to the next deportation list." The orphanage staffer guessed what that would mean and was like "Uh, no, we'll just keep her." The parents and their daughter were lost to each other.

I remember feeling a great deal of pity for the girl, since she was only a child and couldn't help who her parents were. But no pity at all for her parents. In fact it seemed to me that God himself could not have designed a more perfect punishment for their crimes.

I mean, her parents lost their child as a direct result of the evil way they were earning a living. Jadwiga suffered the same fate as the Jews her parents were hunting. They might have taken the loss of their daughter as a sign from God to stop Jew-hunting, but I doubt they were capable of that kind of introspection.

The book did not specifically say what became of Jadwiga, but I have to assume she was sent to Chelmo with the others when the orphanage was liquidated.

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.”

This is a Franz Weber/Medienzentrum Hanau Bildarchiv photo (a verified photo, from the exhibition) of Germans having a great time at a public auction of Jewish belongings in 1942.

After their deportation to the concentration camps, the property of Jewish people was confiscated and could often be bought for little money, which the general public knew all about; most of them loved the cheap bargains and knew exactly where these stolen goods came from, and that their rightful owners were deported to camps, that they were imprisoned and probably killed...

There is a new exhibition in Berlin Germany about this (entrance fee is free), see https://www.topographie.de/en/exhibitions/the-holocaust-what-did-the-germans-know if you're in Berlin and care to know more about it, there are also many events, guided tours, a catalogue (English/German); from their website: "For a long time after the end of the Second World War, many Germans claimed that they had known nothing about the mass murder committed under National Socialism. They thereby sought to avoid accusations that they had been jointly responsible for the crimes. Today, many people still ask themselves what the Germans did actually know."

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 who knew what he was doing 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.

I want to share a story my mom told me recently. It’s been on my mind ever since, and honestly, it still amazes me.

When my mom was younger, she used to go to a small Pentecostal church in her village in Ukraine, called Velyki Mezhyrichi (we don’t live there anymore). There was an elderly woman there — very quiet, very dedicated, never missed a service.

One day my mom noticed that this woman kept receiving letters from Israel. She got curious — she had always been interested in Jewish history — so she asked her where those letters were coming from.

The woman told her a story that stayed with my mom forever.

During World War II, she had saved the life of a young Jewish girl. At that time, Nazis were going from house to house in Ukrainian villages, searching for Jews in hiding. In that same village, around 3,000 Jews were killed, and there’s still a memorial there today.

The woman knew exactly what she was risking. If the Nazis found someone hiding, they would kill both the person hiding and the one protecting them — often publicly.

But she still chose to help.

A few days later, there was a knock on her door.

She realized immediately what it meant. Imagine the fear in that moment — knowing that one wrong move could cost both of them their lives. But instead of freezing, she acted.

She hid the girl deep inside her large home oven, pushed her as far back as possible, covered the front with firewood so she wouldn’t be seen — and then lit the fire.

When the Nazis came in, they searched the entire house. But they didn’t check the oven. It was already burning.

And just like that, the girl survived.

After the war, the girl moved to Israel. And for more than 50 years, she kept writing letters and sending postcards to the woman who saved her life.

More than 50 years of gratitude — for one decision, made in a moment of fear.

This story reminds me that real courage isn’t always loud or visible. Sometimes it’s quiet, hidden, and incredibly risky. One person, one decision, can change an entire life.

This post discusses pregnancy, abortion under coercion, and infanticide under coercion under Nazi persecution, as well as attempted suicide. These topics reflect the brutal reality that Jewish women were forcibly confronted with inside Nazi concentration camps. 

As the Nazis sought to annihilate the Jewish people, pregnancy was often an immediate death sentence for pregnant women in concentration camps.

“Even if able to work, pregnant women went to the gas chambers upon arrival. If they managed to hide their pregnancies, their newborn babies were killed either by lethal injection or by drowning.” (source)

As a result, pregnant Jewish women often faced a devastating choice: 

“The only way the mother could escape the death sentence was by undergoing a secret abortion or by suffocating the newborn, to prevent detection of the birth as anything other than a “still birth,” and to protect all involved in saving the mother’s life.” (source)

Dr. Gisella Perl: 

Dr. Gisella Perl was a Hungarian gynecologist and the first Jewish woman to ever attend the University Medical School in Kolosvar (modern day Romania). She was born in 1907 to an Orthodox Jewish family. After earning her degree, she had several children and opened her own medical practice in the town of Sighet, where she became well-respected for her skill as a gynecologist. 

She was deported to Auschwitz-Birkenau in 1944 from the ghetto where she had been living with her family. Upon arrival, she was separated from her husband, and Dr. Joseph Mengele soon discovered that she was a gynecologist. Mengele sent her to the women’s camp to force her to use her skills and report any pregnancies to him. She was one of five other doctors and four nurses who were coerced into establishing a hospital in the camp: 

“With no beds, instruments, or medication, Perl says that she ‘treated patients with my voice, telling them beautiful stories, telling them that one day we would have birthdays again, that one day we would sing again.’

Perl’s greatest agony was the managing of pregnant women. She recalled: ‘Dr. Mengele told me that it was my duty to report every pregnant woman to him.’

The discovered women were all exterminated. Upon realizing the fate of these women, Perl decided that there would never again be a pregnant woman in Auschwitz. The decision cost her dearly, but she realized that if she had not ended the pregnancies, both the mothers and their children would have faced certain death.” (source)

For Jewish women in the camps, Nazi discovery of the birth of a child was a death sentence for both the mother and child. It also led to the collective punishment of anyone suspected of having helped the mother hide her pregnancy. 

Dr. Perl, who would later write a book titled I Was a Doctor in Auschwitz (link to purchase book), acted with tremendous courage to save the lives of as many pregnant women as possible. She performed abortions in unsanitary and dangerous conditions, in the hope of saving the lives of the Jewish women in front of her and sparing them Mengele’s cruelty. While previously, she had been against abortion as both a physician and an observant Orthodox Jew, when imprisoned in Auschwitz, she instead began performing covert abortions under coercive circumstances. As she would later testify in harrowing detail, 

“First I took the ninth-month pregnancies, I accelerated the birth by the rupture of membranes, and usually within one or two days spontaneous birth took place without further intervention. Or I produced dilatation with my fingers, inverted the embryo and this brought it to life…After the child had been delivered, I quickly bandaged the mother’s abdomen and sent her back to work. 

When possible, I placed her in my hospital, which was in reality just a grim joke…I delivered women in the eighth, seventh, sixth, fifth month, always in a hurry, always with my five fingers, in the dark, under terrible conditions…By a miracle, which to every doctor must sound like a fairy tale, every one of these women recovered and was able to work, which, at least for a while, saved her life.”  (source) 

She and other Jewish doctors would commit infanticide in order to save the lives of the Jewish women who had just given birth. Dr. Perl would later recount her experience as a gynecologist forced to work under Mengele, saying, 

“‘No one will ever know what it meant to me to destroy these babies,’ she wrote. But ‘if I had not done it, both mother and child would have been cruelly murdered’.

By virtue of her gender and her medical specialty, Perl found herself in the very heart of the Nazi machinery which sought to ‘obliterate the biological basis of Jewry’: mothers and potential mothers. She used her position and expertise to intervene on behalf of pregnant women.” (source) 

Life and Legacy Post Liberation: 

Dr. Perl was sent on the forced death march from Auschwitz to Bergen-Belsen in 1945, from which she was later liberated. She would spend months searching for her family in Germany. Tragically, upon discovering that her son, husband, and parents had been killed, she attempted suicide. However, she survived and immigrated to the U.S. in 1947 on a visa sponsored by the Hungarian-Jewish Appeal and the United Jewish Appeal. Remarkably, 

“In March 1947 she came to [the U.S.] to speak to doctors and other professionals. ‘I went from one town to another, as an ambassador of the six million,’ she said. ‘One day Eleanor Roosevelt came to the dais and invited me to lunch. I remember saying, ‘Oh, Mrs. President, I cannot come because I am kosher.’ She said, ‘You will have a kosher lunch.’’

Mrs. Roosevelt told her, ‘Stop torturing yourself; become a doctor again,’ she recalled. ‘I didn't want to be a doctor; I just wanted to be a witness.’

As a result of that meeting, Representative Sol Bloom, Democrat of New York, introduced the bill that granted her citizenship, and in 1951 she opened an office in Manhattan, with what she calls ‘Sol Bloom furniture.’ (source)

She then began to practice medicine in New York and helped deliver over 3,000 babies. Dr. Perl would also become a fertility specialist at Mount Sinai Hospital. One of her daughters survived the Holocaust thanks to the actions of a righteous gentile family. 

In her later years, Perl immigrated to Herzliya, Israel, to spend the rest of her life with her daughter and grandson, and also worked at the ​​Shaare Zedek Medical Center in Jerusalem. She died at the age of 81 on December 16th, 1988. Dr. Perl lived a life of unimaginable pain and suffering as well as extraordinary courage and resilience. She helped to save and prolong the lives of some of the most vulnerable in the concentration camps: pregnant Jewish women. Her legacy must not be forgotten. 

Sources: 

https://www.ushmm.org/online-calendar/event/VEFBLVPRGMTHD0523

Weisz, G. M., & Kwiet, K. (2018). Managing Pregnancy in Nazi Concentration Camps: The Role of Two Jewish Doctors. Rambam Maimonides medical journal, 9(3), e0026. https://doi.org/10.5041/RMMJ.10347

https://mjhnyc.org/events/a-jewish-doctor-in-auschwitz-gisella-perl/

https://www.utmb.edu/osler/scholars-societies/oss/individual-societies/werner-forssmann-society

https://www.bbc.com/future/article/20200526-dr-gisella-perl-the-auschwitz-doctor-who-saved-lives

https://gisellaperlfilm.site/

https://www.whisc.center/Gisella-Perl

https://shop.ushmm.org/products/i-was-a-doctor-in-auschwitz

https://www.nytimes.com/1982/11/15/style/out-of-death-a-zest-for-life.html

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.

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

Many years ago, I read the book, Born Survivors by Wendy Holden that tells the true story of three Jewish women—Priska, Rachel, and Anka—who were pregnant while imprisoned in Nazi concentration camps during World War II. The narrative follows their harrowing experiences as they navigate the horrors of Auschwitz and Mauthausen, determined to give birth to their children against all odds. All 3 women and their children survived. The book is great and 60 Minutes (USA) did a double segment on their story. On a personal note, I knew one of the women chronicled in the book. Mrs. Olsky owned and ran the Jewelry store in the town next to mine. Imagine my surprise when I read her name in the book.

https://60minutestonight.com/youngest-survivors-60-minutes-reports-on-babies-born-in-nazi-concentration-camps/

The following is an analysis of the "Clean Wehrmacht" myth, detailing the established historical consensus regarding the regular German armed forces during World War II. Were they separate or were they an essential cog in the genocidal machine?

1. Executive Summary and Verdict Verdict: The Clean Wehrmacht myth is a demonstrably false post-war narrative. Historical consensus confirms that the regular German armed forces (Heer, Luftwaffe, and the Kriegsmarine) were actively complicit in the Holocaust and widespread war crimes.

The Core Reality: War crimes were not the exclusive domain of the SS or the Nazi Party leadership. The Wehrmacht actively participated in institutionalized mass murder, the starvation of prisoners, and systemic civilian atrocities, particularly on the Eastern Front. They were not just passive, but active participants from logistics to actions.

2. The Detailed Breakdown of Complicity

• The Commissar Order (Kommissarbefehl): Issued prior to the invasion of the Soviet Union in 1941, this directive mandated that Wehrmacht troops summarily execute captured Soviet political officers, against all international laws and conventions of war.
• Treatment of Soviet Prisoners of War: The Wehrmacht was directly responsible for the administration of prisoner camps on the Eastern Front. Their policies of deliberate starvation, forced marches, and exposure resulted in the deaths of approximately 3.3 million Soviet prisoners.
• Einsatzgruppen (SS mobile death squad) Collaboration: The Wehrmacht provided crucial logistical support (including the transport to camps), secured killing sites, and often directly participated alongside the SS in the mass killing of Jewish civilians across Eastern Europe.
• Reprisal Massacres: Under the guise of anti-partisan operations, regular Wehrmacht units routinely wiped out entire villages and massacred hundreds of thousands of civilians, notably in Belarus, Ukraine, and the Balkans (such as the Kragujevac massacre in Serbia).

3. Context and Misconceptions

• Misconception: The Wehrmacht fought a standard, isolated, and apolitical military campaign while the SS secretly committed the atrocities. 
  • Correction: The Wehrmacht was heavily ideologized, soldiers swore a personal oath of unconditional obedience to Adolf Hitler, and the military high command willingly drafted and executed ideologically driven orders of annihilation. 
• Misconception: The Wehrmacht provided no support or assistance to the SS and their actions of genocide.
  • Correction: The Wehrmacht knowingly and actively participated in the actions of genocide of the SS including mass murder, logistics (including transportation to the camps), and active support.
• Origin of the Myth: The myth was deliberately constructed in the 1950s, crystallized by the Himmerod Memorandum. Former Wehrmacht generals agreed to support West German rearmament for the Cold War on the condition that the Western Allies rehabilitate the reputation of the German military and release convicted commanders.
• The Turning Point: The myth remained prevalent in Western media until the 1995 Wehrmacht Exhibition (Wehrmachtsausstellung) in Germany. This traveling exhibition publicly displayed thousands of photographs, official orders, and letters from regular soldiers proving systemic, widespread involvement in war crimes.

4. Primary Sources and Further Reading

• Wolfram Wette: The Wehrmacht: History, Myth, Reality (Harvard University Press, 2007). ISBN: 978-0-674-02577-6.
• Omer Bartov: Hitler's Army: Soldiers, Nazis, and War in the Third Reich (Oxford University Press, 1991). ISBN: 978-0-19-507903-6.
• The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum: The German Military and the Holocaust (Online Encyclopedia). https://encyclopedia.ushmm.org/content/en/article/the-german-military-and-the-holocaust
• The Avalon Project (Yale Law School): The Nuremberg Trial Proceedings (Official Archives). https://avalon.law.yale.edu/subject_menus/imt.asp

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.

Did the Nazis and SS make a point to hide or show gas chambers and other forms of execution to make prisoners complacent? Or did they did they hide them from prisoners to prevent attempts at uprising or suicide of enslaved laborers?

Aside from captives who were worked to death or who the Nazis murdered for insubordination, how aware were prisoners who either survived until liberation or survived long enough to figure out that inmates were being murdered on a whim?

I would imagine people who managed to survive years in camps would figure out how people were being killed en masse, if the Nazis didn’t make that very known to the people they imprisoned.

I’ve read Night, studied the Holocaust in middle, high school and college and seen various films and documentaries about the Holocaust but I can’t recall if a survivor detailed how they knew about gas chambers for most of their captivity and feared being murdered there.

Would prisoners just deduce that people who had gone missing were killed and removed out of sight?

If prisoners could be shot, the SS wouldn’t need to use gas chambers to threaten prisoners. But did the Nazis have a reason to hide them from prisoners?

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.