I wore a gold Star. I bear a tattoo. When Six Million died I was one of the few, Through the mercy of God or the missed chance of Fate, I escaped from the boxcar into winterβs dim light.
My parents and sister, Long are dust on the wind. Their faith and their race were their only known sins Now, though stooped and arthritic, I still testify To the bitter cup tasted when the Six Million died.
(An elderly docent at the Shoah Center recalls his brush with death at the hands of the Gestapo)