By Rabbi Dr. Michael Leo Samuel
SAN DIEGO — In memory of Miriam Samuel, my aunt:
At last, we reached the Gestapo’s dark hold,
A maze of despair, where hope felt so cold.
An old man was torn apart by a dog,
For not removing his hat—an agonizing fog.
We sat against walls, in rows for ten days,
No food, no water, lost in a haze.
Children passed quietly; the elderly too,
Died from the hunger and thirst they all knew.
When scraps of food came, thrown down with spite,
Provoking our anger, igniting the night.
Mothers and children taken to a cruel fate,
Rudolfsmuhle camp—our hearts felt so sedate.
Surrounded by barbed wire, a ghetto did rise,
Guarded by Jewish police beneath pitiless skies.
In a cramped building with beds made of wood,
Moving was a challenge; our freedom withstood.
During those long weeks, my foot grew inflamed,
Swollen and painful, my hope felt untamed.
When doctors appeared, they wanted to act fast,
But fear gripped my heart, as shadows were cast.
My mother sought answers, desperate and bold,
She found some manure, hoping for gold.
With a sharpened knife, I cut deep into skin,
Releasing the pressure to let healing begin.
When doctors returned, they marveled at my fight,
The infection had cleared; hope sparkled with light.
They offered me tasks in their makeshift domain,
Washing and stacking with kindness, no disdain.
From there, we worked hard in the kitchen to serve,
Preparing small meals for those with no reserve.
Life in the camp was tough, with food hard to find,
My brother, so young, fell to hunger unkind.
Then one fateful day, the Germans drew near,
Surrounding our building, amplifying fear.
Aware that our lives hung by a frail thread,
Yet still, people reached for food, filled with dread.
My mother grasped me tight, “You must stay alive,
You must tell our stories, and together we’ll thrive.”
With a swift leap from the truck, she made her escape,
Returning to rescue me, filled with hope and shape,
*
Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel is spiritual leader of Temple Beth Shalom in Chula Vista.