----- Original Message -----
From: Joe Mazzella
To: [EMAIL PROTECTED]
Sent: Monday, September 22, 2008 10:44 AM
Subject: Fw: : A Girl With An Apple
----- Original Message -----
From: The Gabbylady
To: Undisclosed-Recipient:
Sent: Monday, September 22, 2008 8:17 AM
Subject: Fw: : A Girl With An Apple
-----
PLEASE TAKE TIME TO READ THIS. IT IS HEARTBREAKING YET BEAUTIFUL
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 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?' 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 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 at 10:00 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
there 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!' '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 Googling Herman
Rosenblat. He was Bar Mitzvahed at age 75. This story is being made into a
movie called The Fence.
ONLY IF YOU WISH...This e-mail is intended to reach 40 million people
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it around the world. Please send this e-mail to 10 people you know and ask them
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