Please
read this
interesting
story that is
about to be
into a movie.The
girl with
the
apples. A
true story of
survival from
the
Holocaustand
the mysterious
ways of God
that drew
people
together here
inAmerica after
their lives
had touched in
the dark days
of Hitler
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,
and 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
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
little 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?'
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 little
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 AM.
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.
But
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, and
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!'
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 of
Miami Beach ,
Florida
This
story is being
made into a
movie called The
Fence.
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"It
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always thought
you could be."
George
Eliot
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