The old man slowly walked away from the group of tourists. He limped gingerly while leaning on an old, worn, brown wooden cane for support. He squinted through his bifocals to see distant objects. The wrinkles on his face and his balding gray hair caused him to appear many years older than his actual age of seventy-five. A closer look revealed his blood-shot eyes, and tear droplets formed in the corners of his eyes. He was at Auschwitz, the largest of the Nazi concentration camps. They had just entered one of the crematoriums which were used to dispose of thousands of Nazi victims. He was gazing upon a red brick wall with symmetric black oven doors, almost if the doors were invisible. To him, the doors seemed alive, and he could hear the screams of horror and smell the stench of burning flesh as if it were yesterday. He remembered all of the family members and friends who had vanished through these doors. He could see their faces, and feel the fright they all felt before they were separated for the last time. He thought to himself, ëHow did all of this happen, how could this all have happened?í He reflected upon his childhood more than sixty years ago.

He was ten, the blood dripping from his nose, lying in the snow beaten and weary. He heard snickers and laughter from his aggressors. As the boys ran he heard one of them yell, "Serves you right, you stupid Jew!" Although he grew up in Poland and spoke fluent Polish, he was different. He was not the same, not equal. He was Jewish, and the only people who did not hate him were other Jews. It seemed everyday was a struggle for survival because of the terrible poverty, the harsh Polish winters, and the anti-Semitism. The beatings that he endured at the hands of the gentile boys were almost an everyday occurrence.

In addition to the attacks, another vivid childhood memory was the constant cold. His house was no exception. The hut that he lived in was no warmer than the outside. He lived there with his small family which included his mother, father, and his twin sister, Runia. They all slept in the same room together, and ate in the only other room, the kitchen. They lived in a small town called Kolo, which was about two hundred kilometers from Krakaw. He had other family members there including aunts, uncles, and cousins, but to him the one that he felt the closest with was his grandmother. He loved her even more than he loved his parents. He saw her as his role model. She was an uneducated, simple woman, but she possessed more wisdom than any person he had ever known. Often, when problems arose in his life, he would seek out her advice and concern, and he always would feel comforted by her.

Due to his fatherís job as a merchant, which involved a lot of traveling, his family was rarely completely together except for Shabbos. Shabbos was Shabbos, and nobody could change that. On Friday night they would all walk to shul as a family. The Synagogue was not huge, but it was not small. It housed only the fifty Jewish people that lived in his small town. During the service he would sometimes look up and see all of the others deep in prayer. The men wore black clothing with their tallisí covering most of their upper bodies. They were all in five separate rows standing and their bodies swaying back and forth together in rhythmic movements. He could hear soft overtones of melody from the opposite half of the temple; it was the women. After the conclusion of the service they would all meet in one medium sized room to make the blessings over the wine and hallah. Then his parents, his sister and he walked home together.

No matter how poor, or how little food there was to eat during the week, there was always enough to eat on Friday night. The family sat around the small table and ate a delicious meal of chicken by candlelight. It was always chicken because his father was a chicken merchant and it was the only kind of meat that they could afford. During this meal the family shut out the outside world. There was no talk of poverty, or anti-Semitism; there was only prayer, and discussions about the Torah. On a few occasions there were talks of their hope of moving to Palestine, but then the reality of their life resurfaced and the dreams were quickly discarded.

As the old man stood in front of the black ovens frozen with thought, his lips began to move. They curved upward forming a half hearted smile. He had been remembering a humorous time during the first sedar of Passover one year. The meal was at his grandparentsí house. After all of the blessings were said, and after all of the food was eaten it was time for the children to go find the Afi Komin. His grandfather promised a little bit of money to the child who found it. So he and all of his cousins went running off to find the broken piece of the motzah. They were like ants scouring for food after a spill at an outdoor picnic. After about a half an hour of this chaos one of the children exclaimed to the grandfather, "Did you really hide it, because we have looked everywhere!" Then in a deep voice his grandfather called all of the children over to him.

"Look at you children, searching everywhere as if it were life and death for a little money. I did not hide the Afi Komin this year because I thought you children should know something about life. Each and everyone of you should live by the rule that life is not about what you have, but rather it is about what you are willing to give." With this he proceeded to give each and everyone of the children a coin. Each child thanked him in succession, and he smiled knowing that they had learned something. These were the good times; the times where nothing from the outside could upset anyone. But these times never seemed to last.

The old man, still staring at the ovens recalled one of the nights that he woke up in fright. He could hear the ear-piercing yells and screams of women and children outside of his house. With fear in his voice he said, "Mamma, Papa what is going on?"

"Go back to sleep, Hillel," his mother told him. With this he lay in his bed in a terrified state with his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. He continued to hear the never ending screams, and the sounds of terror from the outside. He laid awake for the remainder of the night only beginning to ponder what was going on outside.

The following day it was cold, and he felt alone and frightened at the beginning of the long walk to school . He finally saw what had happened the previous night. There was a house down the road that had been burned. All that remained were the ashes. A small crowd stood outside the house. Then he realized whose house it was; it belonged to one of his uncles. He had a look of disbelief, and confusion. Then he finally gathered enough courage to approach one of the spectators.

"What happened?" he asked.

The person, who he recognized was a neighbor turned to him, and said, "They burned your uncleís home."

In a state of bewilderment he exclaimed, "Who did this?"

"The gentiles," the neighbor stated.

That night was Friday, and at Shabbos dinner he had an unforgettable conversation. He looked across the table at his father, who was deep in prayer, and he asked his father if they were ever going to leave Poland.

"Why is it that you want to leave, my son? his father asked in a soft but stern tone.

"I hate it here, papa," he stated in disgust.

His father looked up with a frown, and tears were forming in the corner of his eyes. Then he replied, "I do too."

From that point on all of the memories the man could recall were about bad times. The anti-Semitism seemed ever rising, and the constant pogroms instilled fear in every Jewish person. The fight for survival became more tilted towards fighting anti-Semitism than it was against the cold or hunger.

The old man began to cover his face with his hands. He began to weep. The memory of the worst night of his life was as cold and dark as ever. He heard the ever present and recurring screams of the night. But this night was different. He heard a loud bang, and then immediately his father and mother grabbed him and his sister, and they huddled together.

"What is going on?" he asked.

"The Germans are here, theyíre here!" his mother yelled.

The three men dressed in lifeless green uniforms stood in front of them. "Get over here, you Jews!" the soldiers yelled in German. Then they grabbed his family and put them on a cold, dark truck. Other Jews from the town huddled together lost, confused, and frightened. Tears flowed as freely as water it seemed. The truck then brought all of the people that had been captured to a train station. From there he and his family were crammed like sardines into a cold metallic train car along with hundreds of other Jews. The train ride seemed like it lasted a lifetime. There was no food, water, or even a bathroom on the train. Finally the train came to a screeching stop. The doors opened, and soldiers started herding the people off the trains like cattle. Outside soldiers yelled in German, "Jews to the left, and others to the right!" He was scared and confused. He and his family huddled together.

As they walked on the cold black paved sidewalk they could hear the sobs, and the screams around them made it seem as if they were marching to their inevitable death. The old man could now feel himself shaking, the feeling of death was upon him. The family came to a fork in the side walk, and there was another soldier there.

"Woman and children to the left, and men to the right," the man yelled in German.

Then his father began to speak a language that he had never hear him speak before, it was German. "Can he come with me, he is young and strong," his father said in his exotic language. The old man only now understood what his father was doing. He was saving his life. He had been considered a child then he would have been sent to his death almost immediately. But then the soldier spoke the words that saved his life.

"The boy can stay here with me." Just like that, they were separated. The father went to the right, and his sister and mother went to the left. As he watched them disappear into the night he knew this was the last time he was ever see his family. He stood there crying as he waited next to the soldier. He watched and listened to the thousands and thousands of Jewish people walk by. Many pleaded just as his father had done with him. The black cold pavement was now wet; wet with tears. After all the people had walked by, the soldier took him to a house near by. He was being spoken to in a foreign language that he did not understand. He finally figured out that he was a slave. A slave who was supposed to serve his masters hand and foot. If he would rebel he would be sent to the camp. He stayed here until the war was over. After the war he was able to move to America and began his life anew.

"Mister, Mister, are you alright?" the tour guide asked.

With a cracking voice the man said, "I am okay. Which way is the exit?"

"To the left," the tour guide said.

The old man walked with a limp towards the door. He was no longer sad, because now he had a sense of closure in his life. The long nights filled with nightmares about his family came no longer. Now that he had revisited the place where he lost his family the void left there from the separation was gone. It did not bring them back, but it put his horrific memories at ease. Now his mother, father, and Runia could rest in peace.