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Survivor Reflections and Testimonies

Echoes of Memory

Read reflections and testimonies written by Holocaust survivors in their own words.

Page 32 of 39

  • House Call

    After two days of intermittent April rain, the wind turned, bearing Arctic cold and heavy wet snow; it rapidly covered the patchwork of fields that stretched from the barn to the line of pines along the river— his horizon since the day he had gone into hiding. From his tiny unglazed window, the view brought back memories of family winter vacations in Berchtesgaden and Kitzbühel. By the time he entered high school, Blumenfeld was already a first-rate Alpine skier, with dreams of a berth on the German Olympic team. Now snow, even at its most pristine, held no appeal; instead, it only added to his isolation. But for the wretched condition of his shoes, he would have attempted a short walk under cover of the approaching darkness. Maybe the weather will keep the RAF home so I can get a full night’s sleep, he thought. Unless the pain again kept him awake.

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  • Hunger Winter

    It was cold, bitter cold. I was only two and a half years old. My feet itched and hurt and then itched again—the result of chronic cold feet. The attic where my family was hiding had no heating, only a very small camping-like stove that was only used to heat water or some food, if we had it. It was the coldest winter in a long time. The southern part of the Netherlands was already liberated. We were in Amsterdam, the northern part. We were isolated and it was very difficult to get food, oil, or wood to heat. Trees were chopped down clandestinely in the night. Punishment for that action would be fierce.

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  • Searching for My Father's Ashes

    For many years I have been sharing memories about my life as a prisoner under Nazi occupation during the time we call the Holocaust. I do so with the hope that humanity will learn the truth of what happened and, most of all, so they will not allow it to happen again to any human beings regardless of how they pray or how they look or where they came from. People always ask questions. They ask if I am still Jewish or if I believe in G-d. People also like to know if I went back home to Siauliai, Lithuania.

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  • A Headstone in the Air

    The Bonaventure Cemetery in Savannah, Georgia—acres of land located on the Wilmington River—is visited every year by thousands of tourists. It is a unique burial place dating back to the 18th century. In addition to the famous Georgians that are interred there, there is an unusual collection of statues telling the story of the people whose graves they adorn as well as an assortment of mausoleums and headstones. The most touching are the statuettes on the graves of young children. One reads: “Papa’s Sweetheart.” The moss-draped mighty old oaks stand erect protecting the elegant statuary and headstones. The cemetery is on the National Registry of Historic Places.

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  • January, 1945

    In January of 1945, we came to Snina. We came from Kiev. The reason we came was because my friend Monica told me on the night of December 24 that the NKVD [Soviet secret police] would come and pick up my sister and the old lady, Ms. Diernfeld, whom we had met during our travels in Russia. She referred to my sister as a German spy because she had very blonde hair and I never referred to her as my sister. I never talked about my family or anything personal.

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  • Stones of Memory

    The teakwood-decked police launch bumped gently against the white sides of the luxury liner anchored off Aden in the Arabian Sea as bright moonlight danced on the black waters. Two Arab harbor policemen stood, straight as lamp poles, on the narrow rear deck of the launch, their white-gloved hands on a shiny chrome railing to steady themselves.

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