Extraordinary Stories in Ordinary Places (Part 1) - or A Holocaust Survivor's Story

Sometimes the most interesting stories are passed on in the most ordinary places. They sneak up on you when you least expect them, quietly whisper in your ear. Often you don't even realize the importance of what you heard or seen until afterwards. This happened to me on a sunny spring afternoon in a dentist's waiting room.

I sat in a waiting room, waiting for a scrubs clad assistant to call my name. I was perusing a fashion magazine propped in my lap when a tall redhead walked in. She held the door for another, much older woman. Judging by the older woman's lined face and stooped shoulders, she was at least in her late 80's or early 90's. Her white hair was cropped into a fluffy helmet. She trudged slowly, leaning heavily on an ornate cane.

The redhead lead the older woman to a shady spot a few seats down from me. "Wait here, grandma, " she said, pointing to a chair. "I'll be back in a little bit."

I was reading about Beyonce's latest fashion triumph and deep analysis of whether brunettes should wear yellow, when I felt the unmistakable crawly sensation one gets while being watched. Sure enough the old lady was staring at me. I gave her a polite smile, ducking back into my magazine.

"You look like my granddaughter," she said before I could feign total absorption in the magazine. A slight accent colored her words. It was familiar, but not exactly what I heard on a regular basis from my Russian born parents. Eastern European for sure.

I pasted another polite smile on my face. "Really?" I asked looking in the direction the tall redhead had gone. For some inexplicable reason people always thought I resembled their cousin, next door neighbor, vet's assistant or anyone else they ever knew who had dark hair. I always attributed this phenomenon to living in Minnesota, land of blondes, where the black haired, brown eyed people like myself weren't as common as in other parts of the country or the world, and thus it was believed we all resembled each other.

"Oh, not her," the old lady said, waving at the door. "That's Julie. I mean Rachel, her younger sister. Here, I'll show you."

She reached into her large, flowery purse. I expected her to pull out a small photo album or a stack of photographs, instead she pulled out an iPhone.

"Here we go," she expertly navigated the phone with slightly shaky fingers. "The one on the right." She pointed to a dark haired woman surrounded by what must have been the rest of the family. I moved over a chair to get a better look.

"Hmm, ok" I nodded noncommittedly. I suppose there was a minor resemblance.

She pointed to each family member, naming each one. "And this is my Sam. He passed in 2005." She pointed to a paunchy elderly man. "I met him here."

"Here? In Minnesota?" I asked, giving up on my magazine.

"In Chicago. I came there after the war." She paused, studying me with her watery eyes. "I was at (she said a name here I didn't catch. I later tried searching for it, but couldn't figure it out.) It was my mother, my sister and I. We lived in Poland until we were taken away. My father and brother were taken somewhere else. I never found them. Of course they died. My sister died early on. It was hard. The brutality." She paused. I nodded, surprised where this conversation was going. "A nightmare. Then my mother passed. I thought that was the end because I was all alone. Then they said they were going to kill everyone and they tried to do it. People were screaming. All that screaming. Everyone else was dead, but I wasn't, so I pretended to be dead too. They threw me into a big hole with the rest of the bodies. I don't know how long I laid there. For days for sure. It blends all together. You know?"

Ummm, no, I didn't know. Luckily, no one has ever murdered my entire family and then attempted to kill me or throw me into a pile of bodies. I've never laid in a pit surrounded by decomposing corpses of people I knew. I didn't know. I was speechless, but nodded again, encouraging her to go on.

"After days passed, I heard voices. It was the good soldiers. Someone was yelling in Polish - Anyone alive?" Ahh, so she was Polish. "I tried to answer, but I wasn't sure if I was alive. But then I thought if I was hearing them I must be alive. If they didn't hear me, they'd move on and I'd be dead for sure. So, I yelled with all my strength. As loud as I could, I yelled. Someone heard me then. They found me and I lived."

With jerky movements she pulled up the sleeve of her pink sweater, revealing faded bluish numbers etched into her loose, translucent skin. "See?" she said, bringing her arm closer. "Doctors have offered to remove it for me. For free even. Good people. But I always say no. I keep it as a reminder for myself and everyone else. We shouldn't forget. Can't let evil to come back. You understand?"

I realized I was holding my breath. "Yes," I nodded.

At that moment we both heard a sound, a quiet shuffle. We looked up to see the redhead had returned and was waiting a few feet away. "Ready, grandma?" she asked.

The old woman patted my hand. "You're a good girl. I must have talked your ear off." She pushed herself up, leaning on her cane.

The redhead gave me an apologetic smile. "Sorry for leaving her with you," it seemed to say. I smiled back and slightly shook my head, meaning it's no problem. The two of them made their way out the door.

This happened four years ago. I never learned the old woman's name and I've never seen her since, but I've always wanted to share her amazing story and the message within it. I wrote it down shortly after I met her. I hope if she ever reads this, she'll approve.