Chain Letter: A Girl with an Apple

It’s rare that a chain letter arrives that I feel inclined to pass on, but “the girl with the apple” is an exception. I have not passed it on, I’m just going to blog it. Whether the story is true or not, I don’t know. Nevertheless it is worth telling…

A Girl with an Apple

August 1942. Piotrkow , 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 going to send 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 litle 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 to eat?”

She didn’t understand. I inched closer to the fence and repeated 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.”