First Week in America
As we got closer to America, the sea became smooth and life returned to normal. The SS Nieuw Amsterdam finally entered New York Harbor on the evening of November 8, 1948.
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Read reflections and testimonies written by Holocaust survivors in their own words.
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Fruits of the Season
Going back to my childhood in Germany, my mother always had a bowl of fresh fruit sitting on our dinner table. Fruit was just one thing that was always available, so no big deal. But things changed drastically when I fled with my parents to the United States at age 13.
Travel Dreams
During my 86 years, I have experienced many countries, and not necessarily for pleasure. I have lived in Poland, England, Israel, and the United States. I owe thanks to each country for allowing me to adapt and live a good life there for some period of time.
Ellen
In the spring of 1945, the US Army was closing in on Cologne. I was an intelligence agent, a member of Interrogator Prisoner of War Team no.66, a part of an intelligence unit called T-Force, 12th Army Group, with a mission to follow the infantry into large cities as they were liberated.
My Journey to America
Once, when I was a very young girl in Poland, I got lost walking with my aunt in the forest. “Are we in America?” I asked her. America was the farthest place on earth for a child my age.
Waiting
On the outskirts of a small village near Vichy, France, Looms the antediluvian castle the Château des Morelles Housing not grand dukes and duchesses But children from Germany, France, and Italy—waiting Lost from their individual families Scattered by the Third Reich. They eat their meager food Pretending it is the feast of royalty.
In Memoriam: Marty Weiss
I had this premonition that it would happen while I was out of the country. And it did. I was in Tel Aviv when I got the news that Marty, my friend, had only a few days left to live, and I was back in Budapest when I got the note from his daughter, Gail, that Marty was not with us anymore.
Last Night I Dreamt of My Father
Last night I dreamt of my father. He was not my father as I remembered him. He was another man, and yet my father. His face and clothes were from another time, Another place.
The Klikk
After almost a year’s absence from my hometown of Miskolc, I arrived in Budapest with Shosha, my sister, and Rozalia, my mother. We stayed at the home of my aunt, Bozsi, and her daughter, Magda. My uncle, Moka, Bozsi’s husband, unfortunately did not return from forced labor.