-Human beings are built to have resilience.

That's how we were made.

I really think -- I think that humanity is very strong.

It's not always tested.

And we -- And if we're tested, we'll make it.

And that we can heal and that we can heal enough to help others heal.

♪♪ ♪♪ -Can you tell me where and when you were born?

-I was born in a place called Gdynia, which is part of Danzig in Poland.

Danzig is a free city that was half German, half Polish, and I was born in the Polish side of it in 1938, September 7th, which is exactly one year before the war.

The war was September 1, 1939.

So I was exactly a year old when the war broke out.

-So is it safe to say that you have no memories of life before the camps?

-No.

None at all?

No.

My memories started at the age of two, two and a half.

And that's only sporadically, you know, because there are certain things that are so unforgettable that even a child who can't express it verbally, I exp-- I expressed it later on.

I knew what was going on.

It just -- It was very an abnormal time.

-So, entering the camp, do you have any memories of -- of walking through those gates for the first time?

-The first camp, I don't remember.

The first was the ghetto.

That means they rounded us all up and they put us in a -- in a tiny apartment and so forth with rules and regulations and so forth.

I have memories not entering, but living there because I lived there till I was four and a half.

Then came the labor camp.

Then I remember very well going to a labor camp where my parents worked the whole day.

And then, of course, was the Auschwitz.

That was very memorable.

We got on a terrible train, got off the train, and there we were.

That's -- My memories start from entering, uh, the labor camp and Auschwitz.

-Tell me a little bit more about that then, entering Auschwitz for the first time, that train ride and entering those gates for the first time.

-There were very few children left, if any.

I don't think there were any except myself because they had taken -- You see, in each place I was, the first thing they did was kill the children and the elderly for all kinds of reasons, and I was hidden at that time when the selection came, so that I was one or maybe, maybe out of two, I don't know, children that went on the -- on the transport to Auschwitz.

I remember that very well because that was the first time that my mother and father were separated.

Till then we were as a family, three of us.

My grandmother was killed.

Everybody else disappeared or were killed.

We didn't see anybody except -- But we were there.

I knew my mother, my father and I was part of their lives.

And then entering the -- the, uh, cattle car, my father was taken away to a -- with men and I was with women, with my mom.

And we got -- I remember my mother helped me on it because it was very, very hard to get on.

And then I remember the ride.

It was 36 hours.

I didn't know it was 36 hours.

I found out later, and I remember it very much.

I mean, it was -- By then I was five and a half, but I was an adult five and a half.

I wasn't an American five and a half.

I was a different type of a child, and it was very hot.

We were sweating because there were so many women all together.

And I remember my thoughts.

And the worst thing was I had to go to the bathroom and I didn't know how.

I couldn't move.

And I kept saying, "Mom, Mom, I need to go."

I don't think she even heard me.

There was so much noise and screaming.

And then I realized everybody was going where they -- where they stood.

So did I. The whole -- The whole, uh, uh, place was dark, except there was a little window.

But it did let in some light.

But since I was small, the light never reached me.

So I remember standing there and falling asleep on somebody else's back, like a woman.

Even her back was perspired.

And I just put my head down, and my mother was holding me around the whole time until we arrived.

I remember that very well.

Screaming, the smell.

You know, smells something that stay with you forever.

And I smell the cattle car.

People were throwing up.

They had dysentery.

See, I knew I was going to Auschwitz, but I don't know if I knew what death was.

I knew it's a place you don't come back from.

But I didn't know what exactly.

The adult women knew, so they were like screaming and crying and so forth.

So I remember that very well.

-Then entering Auschwitz for the first time, what do you remember about that?

-Oh, yes.

You can't forget that because it was -- You see, entering, um, when we got on the cattle car, it was -- we didn't have a platform.

My mother had to pick me up and put me in.

Arriving there was a platform so we could go down.

And I remember the light.

All of a sudden, the light.

But the thing that I saw most of all were the dogs.

I've always seen dogs, you know, the German Shepherds to this day.

I-I live near a dog park right now, and oh, each time they pass my house with the German Shepherds, I know they're wonderful, smart dogs and these are my neighbors, but it's a terrible feeling.

And I remember the German Shepherds.

They were very close to me because they were right by the train as we got off.

And I still remember their saliva and I -- I was tall enough to look straight into their eyes.

And they looked at me and I remember saying to my mom, "I'm going to be killed by them."

And she said, "No, they trained only to kill if you run and you're not going to run."

So the entrance, the first maybe hour or so was very, very memorable.

There was a smell.

I said, "What's the smell?"

And she pointed to the chimney, and I know what she meant.

There was the burning of the bodies after they were gassed.

They were burning them.

I -- She never hid anything from me.

And then they made us undress.

All that she said, "Get undressed."

I said, "Why?

"Why am I going to get dressed?"

She said, "Because they want to check that we're healthy.

If we're not..." She pointed... ...to the smoke.

I knew right away.

You know, I've been so conditioned to know life as it was that she didn't even have to say sentences.

She just had to point.

I knew what that was.

And then they took us and they cut my hair.

They took away my clothing, cut my hair, shaved my head.

You know, it's interesting.

Entering the cattle car, you were still sort of human.

You went as a fam-- I was with my mother and I had my own clothes, my own shoes.

I had my hair.

I looked like skinny, hungry, but like a person.

That was a point where you separated.

You stopped being a human being.

You entered a person and you walked out on the other side because that's how it was, you know?

You enter here and then you -- you -- you -- you -- I don't know how it was, but another door opened.

You were -- You were not a human being.

And after they shaved you, your hair, and gave you some clothes, you were no longer yourself.

-Tell me a little bit about the living quarters.

Paint a picture for me, the -- the sights, the smells, the sounds.

-The living quarters was just a barrack with very little light.

There was light on top and at night you couldn't -- You didn't go to the bathroom.

You made in big pots that overflowing everywhere.

So in the morning each child would try to clean up a little bit and then you could wash.

They would take you to a place where a communal wash place.

Winter, summer, very quick.

Then you went to the toilet, which the toilet was like, uh... ...slabs of wood cut like thin and big holes in it.

And one time I fell in when I was with my mother still, because they were gigantic holes and I couldn't hold on, so I fell in.

Um, and when you went back, they gave you something to eat.

You were fed twice a day, and the rest of the time you just wanted to think about food.

Oh, they counted you.

They counted -- With my mother before I, uh, before I was tattooed, there was called appell.

You stood outside.

You counted for hours.

And, um, with the children, we were counted inside.

We didn't go outside, but they counted us by numbers.

They read the -- They called out the numbers, and I had a bed mate, and she died.

She was 12.

To me, she was so old.

I wasn't worried that she died.

I knew she would die because I could see her starvation signs.

We -- You know, kids would say "she's got three weeks or two weeks.

She's gonna die."

The word was peygern.

Peygern is a Yiddish word that means... It's like street dying.

It's like a street person that sort of disintegrates.

It's not a nice death.

Like a dog that people forget to feed dies on the street somewhere.

So that's the word.

So I would say, "She's gonna die like that."

And, um... so I worried that they're going to call her number, but I knew her number because I heard it so much.

So I remember pulling her by her feet to the spot in the front where all the kids had died that night.

But she was my responsibility.

She was in my -- in my bed.

And then I said, "Oh, she's here, she's here."

Oh, I know her number.

I was so proud of that because otherwise they would call, they would call, they would call.

Nobody's answering.

We would get punished.

What if she ran away?

I don't know how she could run away.

But they were, like, irrational if somebody was missing.

Completely irrational.

They would punish everybody.

So I averted the punishment by knowing her number and pointing to her.

She died.

I knew she would.

-You've mentioned a few times the starvation, that overwhelming starvation.

Can you tell me a little bit more about that feeling?

-There is no way for you -- It's one thing I have to tell you.

You have to be there.

There is no way.

There is no way to describe what happens to your mind and your body when you're deprived of food for a very long time with no hope of getting any.

I mean, it just -- it takes over.

That's all you can think about.

Somebody once said -- I don't remember.

It's not my quote.

Somebody else has said, "How did God look to you?"

And the person said, "A piece of bread."

You know, I got a gift from my mother on my sixth birthday.

It was a piece of bread.

And it said -- I didn't know I had a birthday or anything.

It said, "Tola, happy birth-- Happy sixth birthday."

I couldn't read.

Somebody -- One of the caretakers who was there gave -- read to me.

And then being who I am, I saved it because to me, life wasn't so terrible.

I expected it to be worse.

And I had this fabulous image because I saw everybody dying around me.

I said, "Oh, not gonna happen to me."

What's going to happen to me is I had this image.

I was going to be lying, dying, just about to expire.

And then I said, "Oh, I don't have to.

I have -- I have bread.

I'll take the piece of bread and I'll eat it and I won't die."

So I hid it for that purpose.

It was my insurance policy.

But I hid it inside my -- my shirt.

And in the middle of the night, rats came and ate it all.

I didn't even taste it.

-Were there any moments in particular when you thought your own death was inevitable?

-All the time.

It was just a matter of when.

I thought that being Jewish, you'd die.

It went together -- Child being Jewish.

And -- And -- And -- And, um... Death was like one word.

It was like, you know, it's like kids now know it when they're five, five and a half or whatever.

They go to kindergarten, then they go to first.

It's accepted.

They know when they'll be going to kindergarten.

So they -- they -- they anticipate their birthday so they can -- they know they're going to be -- That's how it was with me.

I knew exactly.

As soon as I am -- Oh, I didn't know the year or when.

All they had to do was find me and that's it.

Or a part of a selection of a group.

They were ready to take the kids.

I'm among the kids.

I thought at all -- any -- any moment I will be dead.

-What do you remember about the day you were taken to the crematorium?

-Uh, they gave us a delicious breakfast... ...which was the best.

I didn't care about the -- I knew we were going because the barrack before that, a few -- A few days before I knew the kids disappeared.

I knew where they went, but I didn't care because I was going to eat.

I told you the only thing on Earth was food.

What cares after -- What comes after I eat, I didn't care.

It was something soft, something delicious, something sweet, delicious stuff.

And we -- And we -- And we ate.

And then we got dressed.

We went, we walked.

And I remember we were passing the women.

I didn't even know they were there.

And my mother's calling me by my name.

She's calling.

"Where are you going?"

I could recognize her voice.

I said, "Oh, my mother."

Because who knows my name?

Nobody calls me by my name.

And I said, "To the crematorium."

And everybody was screaming because the women had children in the same group.

They were screaming and crying and -- and -- and -- and I turned to the little girl next to me because we had partners.

And I said, "Why are they crying?

Every Jewish child goes to the crematorium."

That's what I said to her.

And then we walked.

We walked, and then we came back because they -- they told us to come back.

And I remember it was dark already.

We went, there was light.

Coming back, it was dark.

And I hear voices again.

"What happened?

What -- What's going on?"

And I said to my mom -- I heard a voice.

"They couldn't do it this time.

They'll take us next time."

Just like that.

Like as if nothing.

That's the way it's supposed to be.

Just next time.

I wasn't elated, I wasn't happy.

It was -- You know, when you grow up like that and you know nothing else, even horror becomes normal, right?

-Can you tell me a little bit about the day that your mother found you in the camp?

Did you have, uh, any sense of certainty that she was still alive even?

-No.

Well, I did hear her.

You know, I heard her calling me.

I didn't see her.

I heard her.

And I didn't know.

By time passing, I can't remember.

I didn't know.

You know, children I don't think know time that well.

But all of a sudden she appeared.

That was already when the -- the -- the -- the -- the person who watched us, um, disappeared also.

It was almost the begi-- It was almost when the Allies were on their way and so she could get in, into our barrack.

Otherwise she couldn't have got into the barrack.

She would have been shot.

Can't go out to a different barrack, and she -- I was -- I had trouble recognizing.

She looked terrible.

Terrible.

It was -- It was my mother.

The way I remembered her.

I have not seen her for quite a while and I didn't remember her, but she convinced me she was my mother.

Didn't take long.

And then she snuck me out.

She had a plan, which I didn't know about.

Took me to the infirmary of women, but I remember her holding me very tightly because outside there was chaos just to make it from our barrack to to the -- to what's -- I guess she thought it was a safe barrack.

You didn't know you could make it.

They were shooting.

You see, the Germans were walking around with guns, shooting everybody who didn't get into the line fast enough.

They were lining up everybody to leave Auschwitz.

They were going to walk them to Germany because they didn't want to leave them as witnesses.

By then, it was chaos.

They were shoot-- The dogs were barking.

They were shooting.

Uh, they were -- they were -- Anybody who didn't -- And we didn't want to go in that line.

My mother said that she will not survive on that trip.

She knew it was very far, she said to me, and it was snow outside.

And she said, "Look at me."

She was just -- Her feet were swollen.

Stomach was -- She looked terrible.

She said -- She had no shoes.

She had like rags.

She said, "I'm gonna die on the road."

And then she said these words.

"I don't want you to live alone in this world.

I don't want you to survive by yourself.

I want you to die with me here.

Will you die with me in Auschwitz?"

I said, "Yeah."

She thought she'd be shot, you know?

You can't just decide not to go on that line because everybody who didn't go fast enough was shot.

But she -- we snuck out and we were walking near the barracks very close to the barracks.

We shouldn't be seen.

And we came to this hospital infirmary.

And I remember she took my hand and held it very tightly, and she went from corpse to corpse.

I didn't know what she was touching, all these cor-- only women.

Until she found the corpse she liked.

I looked at the corpse.

It was a woman, warm.

She could manipulate her body because the woman must have died minutes earlier.

She said, "Get in."

She helped me.

She took off my shoes and she manipulated my body in such a way.

I knew exactly what she wanted.

She put my mouth, my head under her -- her -- her arm right here.

Armpit.

But my mouth into the ground, my face to the ground.

My head was here.

And then she put my legs, one in between the woman.

She was manipulating it, and then she covered and -- But the woman's hands were out and the blanket was up to her chin, but her hands were out.

She took them out.

They were like this.

I could feel it, you know, because my head was right here.

And she said, "Try not to breathe much.

Nobody should -- will uncover you.

Don't uncover yourself no matter what happens."

And she disappeared.

And I knew what she wanted.

So I started breathing very shallow into the ground, into the bottom.

And then I heard this screaming and yelling, "Raus, raus!

Out, out!"

They were coming.

People were everywhere.

And they were shooting those who were dying.

Now, that doesn't make sense to anybody.

But by then, nobody was in their right mind.

The Germans were not in their right mind.

They wanted to just get out, run away before the Russians came, and take as many people with them and kill those who stayed behind.

So they started walking all around and somebody stopped by my bed, wanted to make sure that the dead person was really dead.

Otherwise they would shoot that person, that woman.

And I remember I stopped breathing.

I was afraid the blanket would move.

I -- Luck.

By luck, the person moved on.

I could hear the boots.

I couldn't have kept my -- my -- my breath any longer.

And even then it was very shallow after the person left.

It's screaming and yelling.

Oh, I remember that.

And shooting.

And then there was quiet, but there was smoke.

And then I said, "Oh!"

My mother said, "I can't get uncovered.

I can't breathe."

But I would not uncover myself.

I knew she was right.

I knew if I listened to her, I'll ma-- I'll survive.

I'll make it.

So -- So I didn't uncover.

By the time I couldn't hold anymore, she uncovered me.

And these were her words.

"They're gone."

Just like that in Yiddish.

"They're no longer here."

And -- And I looked around.

So many people had also hidden with corpses.

And in order to get out of bed, they pushed the corpses off the bed so they can get -- I didn't because my mother took me out.

The corpse was still on the bed.

She helped me out and to put my shoes on, but I couldn't find my shoes.

They were -- I don't know what happened.

So I was barefoot and all these people were -- There were corpses all over.

And we all -- And then -- And then the place was burning.

That's how it was, the smoke.

They had set up the infirmary on fire.

And then we walked out with everybody outside, and lots of people were walking.

It was dark and there was snow and I was wearing I don't know what but I remember walking towards the gates and that was, uh, January 25th.

The Russians came January 27th.

But January 25th, the Germans had gone already.

They left two days before the Russians came.

So that's how we were liberated.

-Why does it matter to you so much to tell these stories?

What is the importance of storytelling in your life?

-Storytelling is who we are.

You know, there was a time when people couldn't read or write, and storytelling was the way they give history.

All the books that you have started with storytelling, and I'm telling the story in order not to be forgotten.

It's true, now we have books and Internet and all that stuff, but there is nothing like a real story.

It has a terrific emotional effect, much more than the written word.

The reason that Hitler was -- was so successful -- because he was a great storyteller.

He was a great speaker.

And that taught me a lot also.

I want to be a speaker so that the people will hear me and have an effect, and I want my grandchildren to do the same.

So I speak any time somebody wants me to.

Very important not to forget those who aren't here anymore by telling their story because they're not here to tell it.

-You also had children of your own.

How and when did you eventually tell them the story of your life and surviv-- -Right away.

As soon as they ask.

My children, my grandchildren.

As soon as they see my number, I don't tell them.

I tell them as they get ready.

First, I tell a 3-year-old, "Yeah, I did--" "Why did you write this on your hand?

You're not supposed to write."

I said, "Yes, I didn't.

Bad people did it to me."

And as they get older, they know more and more and more until they know as much as I do.

And then many of them came with me to Auschwitz to say the prayer over the ashes.

And they saw the cattle car and they come with me to speaking.

I make my children and grandchildren part of my life so that when I'm not here, they will continue.

-What is the main lesson you've wanted to convey to your children and grandchildren about your experience?

-Remember.

This is part of your history if you're Jewish or if you're not, even if you're just a human being.

This is what happen if we're not careful.

Remember those, the innocent people.

Remember the destruction of innocence on this Earth.

Number one.

Number two... Uh, be more cognizant of your environment.

Your environment.

Because by not seeing and not listening and not caring, this what may happen.

Got to be awake, you know, to see what's going on.

That's -- The third thing is, which maybe is the last is that... ...I guess hope -- I see hope for humanity.

I see positive things.

But we have to work at it.

You know, I want to tell you a little story, which I sort of like.

A grandk-- grandson asks his grandfather.

"Tell me about your feelings about things," he says to his grandfather.

The grandfather said, "You know, I always have two feelings.

One is good and one is bad.

One is kind and the other one is mean."

And the grandson said, "Which one wins?"

And the grandfather said, "The one you feed.

So you have to feed the good side of you."

It really feels very important on every level.

-Talk to us a little bit about the importance of family in your life and what you hope -- -Family has been the most important thing in my life because Hitler wanted to kill our religion, our continuity, our people.

In fact, I wanted six children.

One for every million that was killed.

But I stopped at four.

But now I'm very happy.

I have eight grandchildren.

They all are very proud of being Jewish.

They're educated Jews.

They've been to Israel.

They're going to be -- I -- They're going to continue my story.

All of them.

All eight know the story, and I know that they will continue and they come with me.

Not whoever is available when I travel and I talk.

So I think it's been... I sort of did a -- I did -- When Hitler said, "Let's kill the Jews," I said, "Mnh-mnh, I'll have as many kids as I can."

Get rid of the religion.

Unh-unh.

Not mine.

They're going to be very Jewish.

They're going to -- Some of them speak Hebrew.

And it's sort of a -- a -- an oppositional -- Like I'm trying to undo what he tried to do.

And it's very meaningful to me.

It's not just a theory, you know.

That's why they're so important in my life.

As if I'm vindicated, you know.

This is... I'm here and I'm -- And I am not just a survivor, but I'm thriving in a way.

And -- And I don't have, um, uh, survivor's guilt.

I have something else which is new in psychology, but I had it before they wrote about it.

Survivor's growth.

I feel -- I feel like I'm still fighting, you know?

For our right, our people, our us.

♪♪ ♪♪ ♪♪