This was written by the15-year-old son of a Soviet emgire who works at the Kof-K. He wrote about his great-grandmother, a Holocaust survivor from Kovno, Lithuania.

I have nearly three Litas [Lithuanian currency] remaining, but I am not nervous. I hear more and more gunshots every day. The Russians are closing in on the Nazis.

I remember when I first heard the sound of those terrible gunshots; at first I did not realize that the Nazis had invaded Kovno, my hometown in Lithuania, and by the time I did, it was too late. They stormed my home, burned the place to the ground, and forced me to get on the train. I refused, and I will forever regret this decision. The soldier threw me to the ground and aimed his rifle at the head of my husband. I wailed for him to stop, but to no avail. He shot him right in front of my anguish-filled eyes. I began to weep in agony as they took my infant son and told me that the Nazis would rule the world. They picked Joseph up, looked at him for a moment, and shot him. I was taken to the train and thrown on.

As I was transported to an unknown location, I saw the remnants of my city. I saw German planes fly over it dropping bombs on the synagogue, on the marketplace, on my best friend’s home. I saw the Nazi’s weapons slaughter the valiant people who refused to obey them. I saw the smoke clouds above my destroyed and beloved hometown. The next thing I remember was the sight of the forlorn and fungi-ridden sign that read Šiauliai. I saw smoke as far as the eye could see and thousands of people with hunched backs and faces filled with despair. I did not know it at that point, but later it would be forever be engrained in my memory, I had arrived in the ghetto.

I was forced to dig trenches 10 feet deep, not knowing that they would be used for the bodies of the dead people that were not able to complete the arduous and incessant labor. If one Jew will live, it will be me, I repeated to myself. I had to keep hope; it was the only thing that kept me going through these impossible times. My family was dead; I had no home, all I had were 100 Litas that I smuggled before I was boarded onto the train. Hope, that’s what kept me alive throughout the next four years.

Those years felt like eternity; every day I was forced to perform painful menial labor on the liter of watery soup that I was fed. Then one night some people on the outside cut a hole in the fence through which I was able to sneak out of. I kissed and gave them hugs with the energy I had remaining. I lived with them, paying my way with the 100 Litas.

The people I lived with painfully reminded me of the life I had four years ago. I lived for six months in a cramped cellar and can still remember having nightmares of being suffocated in there. Nevertheless, I had three meals a day and lived in a warm household. I would hide in the cellar whenever the Nazis would come for inspection. Thank God they never found me.

The time kept passing by and gunshots were heard more frequently. The people I lived with told me that the Russians were advancing. They were content with this news and so was I for a moment, but then I sadly recalled that I had nowhere to go.

Then on one glorious day a knock was heard on the door and the woman with whom I lived opened it. I hid as I usually would, in fear of the Germans, but my reaction was different this time. I heard a scream and heard my name called, “Eda, Eda, come out you are free!”

I ran out to see what the fuss was about and there stood a very handsome Russian soldier. He told me they had pushed the Germans back into Berlin and had a very good chance to win the war. I gave him a humongous hug and asked what his name was. “Boris Rivkin,” he said, “but you can call me Boris.”

Epilogue

Boris and Eda, my great grandfather and great grandmother, eventually got married and had a daughter, my grandmother. After my grandparents had my father and obtained enough money, they moved to the United States. Sadly, my great grandmother Eda Nurok died in 2001. I visited her when I was little and always asked her stories about how she survived in the ghetto. She always told me that hope kept her going; hope that she would survive, hope that she would raise another happy family, and hope that humanity would never allow such a thing like the Holocaust to happen again.

By Mark Shneyderman