“You remain,” the SS soldier said, pointing at Morris Price — then Moniek Prajs — instructing him to wait in the open truck that had just arrived at Birkenau from the Krakow ghetto.
At 5 o’clock one morning in April 1944, Jean Greenstein — ne Egon Grünstein — heard the bell ringing at the front gate of his family’s home in Velky Sevlus, Czechoslovakia
“Los, los. Alle heraus,” the SS soldiers yelled, whips in hand, as the train doors opened onto the Auschwitz-Birkenau platform.
Gabriella Karin (then Foldes) tightly clasped her Uncle Sandor’s waist as she traveled on the back of his bicycle along the back roads of Slovakia from Malzenice to Bratislava, a 40-mile journey.
“Achtung,” a German officer shouted. “Attention.” Fifteen-year-old Henry Oster, then called Heinz, lined up with his mother in a Lodz ghetto courtyard on a mid-August day in 1944.
Half the people in the cattle car were already dead when the train pulled in after midnight to the station in the Polish city of Oswiecim (Auschwitz).
The alert came at dusk. Eva Perlman (then called Eva Hanna Gutmann), just 12 years old, looked out the window of the apartment her family was renting in Autrans, France, on the second story of what they called “the yellow house.”
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