I remember thinking that I would have done the same thing.
At the National Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC, I picked up a tiny booklet with a name and a story inside.
My booklet told the story of a survivor.
My friend’s, however, did not. Hers was a mom with a young daughter. When the death train stopped outside the concentration camp, guards tried to push the crowd into two separate lines: Those who could work and those who could not.
The women could work.
But the kids were considered a burden without benefit, so they were immediately sent to the gas chambers.
This woman, though, refused to be separated from her daughter. She must have clung insistently, desperately, stubbornly to that little hand. I imagine her words, “Don’t be afraid. Mommy’s with you,” even as they walked into death together.
I hope I would have done the same thing. I’d…
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