It was the first night of Passover, 1997. It was a sunny warm evening and we were gathered for a seder with friends, whose mother was visiting from Philadelphia. My daughter Madeleine was eight years old. Itka and Madeleine and I sat on the sofa eating nuts and gazing out into the lovely garden in our friends’ backyard.

“What’s that number on your arm, Itka?” asked my daughter. “Vell, it’s a long story, Madeleine. And I’m not so sure how much to tell you. You are a big girl now, but there are still some things you do not know. Some very bad people put that number on my arm, and I still wear it to remind me. We must never forget…”

“What kind of bad people, Itka?” Madeleine persisted.

“Bad enough to kill millions of innocent men, women, and children, my dear one.”

“But why?”

“Because they were Jewish, mostly. Some were Gypsies, Jehovah’s witnesses, and gay people.”

“How did they kill them?”

“Well, in Poland and Germany the Nazis built special camps to kill people. Most of the people were shipped in by railroad car, from Germany and Poland. They were packed into the cars like sardines, with no food, water, or toilets. The two biggest and most notorious camps were Auschwitz and Bergen Belsen. I was at Auschwitz for one year, then was moved to Bergen Belsen for six months, where I met my husband Izak.”

“That’s so horrible! How could they do that?”

“Did you escape?”

“No. I am what’s called a survivor. I was barely alive when the US troops came to liberate us at the end of World War Two.”

“How did you live?”

“It was very hard, and not many of us did survive. But I was young and healthy, and determined to make it out alive. My husband Isak and I met there, in Bergen Belsen. We kept each other alive with our love.”