It is cold, so bitter cold, on this dark, winter day in 1942. But it is
no different from any other day in this Nazi concentration camp. I
stand shivering in my thin rags, still in disbelief that this nightmare
is happening. I am just a young boy. I should be playing with friends; I
should be going to school; I should be looking forward to a future, to
growing up and marrying, and having a family of my own. But those dream
are for the living, and I am no longer one of them. Instead, I am almost
dead, surviving from day to day, from hour to hour, ever since I was
taken from my home and brought here with tens of thousands of other
Jews.
Will I still be alive tomorrow? Will I be taken to the gas chamber tonight?
Back and forth I walk next to the barbed wire fence, trying to keep my
emaciated body warm. I am hungry. I am always hungry. Edible food seems
like a dream. Each day, as more of us disappear, the happy pass seems
like a mere dream, and I sink deeper and deeper in to despair.
Suddenly, I notice a young girl walking past on the other side of the
barbed wire. She stops and looks at me with sad eyes, eyes that seem to
say that she understands, that she, too, cannot fathom why I am here. I
want to look away, oddly ashamed for this stranger to see me like this,
but I cannot tear my eyes from hers.
Then she reaches into her pocket, and pulls out a red apple.
A beautiful, shiny red apple. Oh, how long has it been since I have seen one! she
looks cautiously to the left and to the right, and then with a smile of
triumph, quickly throws the apple over the fence. I run to pick it up,
holding it in my trembling, frozen fingers. In my world of death, this
apple is an expression of life, of love. I glance up in time to see the
girl disappearing in to the distance.
The next day, I cannot, help myself - I am drawn at the same time to that spot near the fence.
Am I crazy for hoping she will come again? Of course. But in here, I cling to any tiny scrap of hope. She has given me hope and I must hold tightly to it.
And again, she comes. And again, she bring me an apple, flinging it over the fence with the same sweet smile.
This time I catch it, and hold it up for her to see. Her eyes twinkle.
Does she pity me?
Perhaps. I do not care, though. I am just so happy to gaze at her. And
for the first time in so long, I feel my heart move with emotion.
For seven months, we meet like this. Some times we exchange a few
words. Some times, just an apple. But she is feeding more than my belly,
this angel from heaven. She is feeding my soul. And somehow, I know I
am feeding her as well.
One day, I hear frightening news we are being shipped to another camp.
This could mean the end for me. And it definitely mean the end for me
and my friend.
The next day when I greet her, my heart is breaking, and I can barely
speak as I say what must be said: "Do not bring me an apple tomorrow, "
I tell her. "I am being sent to another camp. We will never see each
other again." Turning before I lose all control, I run away from the
fence. I cannot bear to look back. If I did, I know she would see my
tears streaming down my face.
Month pass and the nightmare continues. But the memory of this girl
sustains me through the terror, the pain, the hopelessness. Over and
over in my mind, I see her face, her kind eyes, I hear her gentle words,
I taste those apples.
And then one day, just like that, the nightmare is over. The was has
ended. Those of us who are still alive are freed. I have lost everything
that was precious to me, including my family. But I still have the
memory of this girl, a memory I carry in my heart and gives me the will
to go on as I move to America to start a new life.
Years pass. It is 1957. I am living in New York City. A friend convinces
me to go on a blind date with a lady friend of his. Reluctantly, I
agree. But she is nice, this woman named Roma. And like me, she is
immigrant, so we have at least that in common.
"Where were you during the war?" Roma ask me gently, in that delicate
way immigrants ask one another questions about those years.
"I was in a concentration camp in Germany," I reply.
Roma gets a far away look in her eyes, as if she is remembering something painful yet sweet.
"What is it?" I ask.
"I am just thinking about something from my past, Herman," Roma explains
in a voice suddenly very soft. "You see, when I was a young girl, I
lived near a concentration camp. There was a boy there, a prisoner, and
for a long while, I used to visit him every day. I remember I use to
bring him apples. I would throw the apple over the fence, and he would
be so happy."
Roma sighs heavily and continues. "It is hard to describe how we felt
about each other - after all, we were young, and we only exchanged a few
words when we could - but I can tell you, there was much love there. I
assume he would killed like so many others. But I cannot bear to think
that, and so I try to remember him as he was for those months we were
given together."
With my heart pounding so loudly I think it will explode, I look
directly at Roma and ask, "And did that boy say to you one day, 'Do not
bring me an apple tomorrow. I am being sent to another camp'? "
"Why, yes," Roma responds, her voice trembling. "But, Herman, how on earth could you possibly know that?"
I take her hand in mine and answer, "Because I was that young boy, Roma."
For many moments, there is only silence. We cannot take our eyes from
each other, and as the veils of time lift, we recognize the dear friend
we once love so much, whom we have never stopped loving, whom we have
never stopped remembering.
Finally, I speak: "Roma, I was separated from you once, and I don't ever
want to be separated from you again. Now, I am free, and I want to be
together with you forever. Dear, will you marry me?"
I see that same twinkle in her eyes as Roma says, "Yes, I will marry
you," and we embrace, the embrace we longed to share for so many months,
but barbed wire came between us, Now, nothing ever will again.
Almost forty years have passed since that day when I found my Roma
again. Destiny brought us together the first time during the war to show
me a promise of hope, and now it had reunited us to fulfill that
promise.
Valentine's Day, 1996. I bring Roma to the Oprah Winfrey Show to honor
her on national television. I want to tell her in front of millions of
people what I feel in my heart every day:
"Darling, you fed me in the concentration camp when I was hungry. And I
am still hungry, for something I will never get enough of:
I am only hungry for your love."
- Herman and Roma Rosenblat
As told to Barbara De Angelis, Ph. D.
