August 1942,
Piotrkowâs,
Poland. The
sky was gloomy
that morning as we
waited anxiously.
All the men, women
and children of
Piotrkow's Jewish
ghetto had been
herded into a
square. Word
had gotten around
that we were being
moved. My
father had only
recently died from
typhus, which had
run rampant
through the
crowded ghetto. My
greatest fear was
that our family
would be
separated.
'Whatever you do,'
Isidore, my eldest
brother, whispered
to me, 'don't tell
them your age. Say
you're sixteen'.
I was tall for a
boy of 11, so I
could pull it off.
That way I might
be deemed valuable
as a worker.
An SS man
approached me,
boots clicking
against the
cobblestones.
He looked me up
and down, then
asked my age.
'Sixteen,' I said.
He directed me to
the left, where my
three brothers and
other healthy
young men already
stood.
My mother was
motioned to the
right with the
other women,
children, sick and
elderly people.
I whispered to
Isidore,
'Why?'
He didn't answer.
I ran to Mama's
side and said I
wanted to stay
with her.
'No,' she said
sternly.
'Get away.
Don't be a
nuisance. Go
with your
brothers.'
She had never
spoken so harshly
before. But
I understood:
She was protecting
me. She
loved me so much
that, just this
once, she
pretended not to.
It was the last I
ever saw of her.
My brothers and I
were transported
in a cattle car to
Germany. We
arrived at the
Buchenwald
concentration camp
one night weeks
later and were led
into a crowded
barrack. The
next day, we were
issued uniforms
and identification
numbers.
'Don't call me
Herman anymore.'
I said to my
brothers.
'Call me 94983.'
I was put to work
in the camp's
crematorium,
loading the dead
into a
hand-cranked
elevator. I,
too, felt dead.
Hardened, I had
become a number.
Soon, my brothers
and I were sent to
Schlieben, one of
Buchenwald's
sub-camps near
Berlin. One
morning I thought
I heard my
mother's voice.
"Son", she said
softly but
clearly,"I am
sending you an
angel." Then
I woke up.
Just a dream.
A beautiful dream.
But in this place
there could be no
angels.
There was only
work. And
hunger. And
fear.
A couple of days
later, I was
walking around the
camp, around the
barracks, near the
barbed-wire fence
where the guards
could not easily
see. I was
alone. On
the other side of
the fence, I
spotted someone a
young girl with
light, almost
luminous curls.
She was
half-hidden behind
a birch tree.
I glanced around
to make sure no
one saw me.
I called to her
softly in German.
'Do you have
something eat?'
She didn't
understand.
I inched closer to
the fence and
repeated the
question in
Polish. She
stepped forward.
I was thin and
gaunt, with rags
wrapped around my
feet, but the girl
looked unafraid.
In her eyes, I saw
life. She
pulled an apple
from her woolen
jacket and threw
it over the fence.
I grabbed the
fruit and, as I
started to run
away, I heard her
say faintly, 'I'll
see you tomorrow.'
I returned to the
same spot by the
fence at the same
time every day.
She was always
there with
something for me
to eat - a hunk of
bread or, better
yet, an apple.
We didn't dare
speak or linger.
To be caught would
mean death for us
both. I
didn't know
anything about her
just a kind farm
girl except that
she understood
Polish. What
was her name? Why
was she risking
her life for me?
Hope was in such
short supply and
this girl on the
other side of the
fence gave me
some, as
nourishing in its
way as the bread
and apples.
Nearly seven
months later, my
brothers and I
were crammed into
a coal car and
shipped to
Theresienstadt
camp in
Czechoslovakia.
'Don't return,'
I told the girl
that day.
'We're leaving.'
I turned toward
the barracks and
didn't look back,
didn't even say
good-bye to the
girl whose name
I'd never learned,
the girl with the
apples.
We were in
Theresienstadt for
three months.
The war was
winding down and
Allied forces were
closing in, yet my
fate seemed
sealed. On
May 10, 1945, I
was scheduled to
die in the gas
chamber at10:00
a.m. In the
quiet of dawn, I
tried to prepare
myself. So
many times death
seemed ready to
claim me, but
somehow I'd
survived.
Now, it was over.
I thought of my
parents. At
least, I thought,
we will be
reunited.
At 8 a.m. there
was a commotion.
I heard shouts,
and saw people
running every
which way through
camp. I
caught up with my
brothers.
Russian troops had
liberated the
camp! The gates
swung open.
Everyone was
running, so I did
too.
Amazingly, all of
my brothers had
survived;
I'm not sure how.
But I knew that
the girl with the
apples had been
the key to my
survival. In
a place where evil
seemed triumphant,
one person's
goodness had saved
my life, had given
me hope in a place
where there was
none. My
mother had
promised to send
me an angel, and
the angel had
come.
Eventually I made
my way to England
where I was
sponsored by a
Jewish charity,
put up in a hostel
with other boys
who had survived
the Holocaust and
trained in
electronics. Then
I came to America,
where my brother
Sam had already
moved.
I served in the U.
S. Army during the
Korean War, and
returned to New
York City after
two years.
By August 1957,
I'd opened my own
electronics repair
shop. I was
starting to settle
in.
One day, my friend
Sid who I knew
from England
called me.
'I've got a date.
She's got a Polish
friend.
Let's double
date.'
A blind date?
Nah, that wasn't
for me. But
Sid kept pestering
me, and a few days
later we headed up
to the Bronx to
pick up his date
and her friend
Roma. I had
to admit, for a
blind date this
wasn't so bad.
Roma was a nurse
at a Bronx
hospital.
She was kind and
smart.
Beautiful, too,
with swirling
brown curls and
green,
almond-shaped eyes
that sparkled with
life.
The four of us
drove out to Coney
Island. Roma
was easy to talk
to, easy to be
with. Turned out
she was wary of
blind dates too!
We were both just
doing our friends
a favor. We took a
stroll on the
boardwalk,
enjoying the salty
Atlantic breeze,
and then had
dinner by the
shore. I
couldn't remember
having a better
time. We
piled back into
Sid's car, Roma
and I sharing the
backseat. As
European Jews who
had survived the
war, we were aware
that much had been
left unsaid
between us.
She broached the
subject,
Where were you,'
she asked softly,
'during the war?'
'The camps,' I
said, the terrible
memories still
vivid, the
irreparable loss,
I had tried to
forget. But
you can never
forget. She
nodded. My
family was hiding
on a farm in
Germany, not far
from Berlin,' she
told me. 'My
father knew a
priest, and he got
us Aryan papers.'
I imagined how she
must have suffered
too, fear, a
constant
companion.
And yet here we
were both
survivors, in a
new world.
'There was a camp
next to the farm.'
Roma continued.
'I saw a boy there
and I would throw
him apples every
day.'
What an amazing
coincidence that
she had helped
some other boy.
'What did he look
like? I asked.
He was tall.
Skinny.
Hungry. I
must have seen him
every day for six
months.'
My heart was
racing. I
couldn't believe
it. This
couldn't be.
'Did he tell you
one day not to
come back because
he was leaving
Schlieben?'
Roma looked at me
in amazement.
'Yes,'
'That was me!'
I was ready to
burst with joy and
awe, flooded with
emotions. I
couldn't believe
it. My
angel.
'I'm not letting
you go.' I said to
Roma. And in
the back of the
car on that blind
date, I proposed
to her. I
didn't want to
wait.
You're crazy!' she
said. But
she invited me to
meet her parents
for Shabbat dinner
the following
week. There
was so much I
looked forward to
learning about
Roma, but the most
important things I
always knew: her
steadfastness, her
goodness.
For many months,
in the worst of
circumstances; she
had come to the
fence and given me
hope. Now that I'd
found her again, I
could never let
her go. That
day, she said yes.
And I kept my
word. After
nearly 50 years of
marriage, two
children and three
grandchildren I
have never let her
go.
Herman Rosenblat
Miami Beach,
Florida
This is a true
story and you can
find out more by
clicking on the
links below. Herman
Rosenblat as he
was bar mitzvahed
at age 75. This
story is being
made into a movie
called The Fence.
http://www.palmbeachpost.com/localnews/content/south/epaper/2008/02/17/0217love.html
http://www.atlanticoverseaspictures.com/herman.htm
