FACING SURVIVAL | DAVID KASSAN by fishermuseum

Facing Survival

Facing Survival | David Kassan

Facing Survival | David Kassan, presented by USC Fisher Museum of Art and USC Shoah Foundation and made possible with generous support from The Kenneth T. and Eileen L. Norris Foundation

Facing Survival | David Kassan

Facing Survival | David Kassan, presented by USC Fisher Museum of Art and USC Shoah Foundation and made possible with generous support from The Kenneth T. and Eileen L. Norris Foundation

Meditation on Facing Survival

Selma Holo

Portraits of Life in Death

Stephen Smith

Bearing Witness

John Nava

The Art of Testimony

Michael Renov

Artistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Statement

David Kassan

Paintings of Survivors John Adler Louise and Lazar Farkas Roslyn Goldofsky and Bella Stuzl Sam Goldofsky Pinchas Gutter Andy Holten Joshua Kaufman Roman Kent Raya Kovensky Edward Mosberg Hanna Pankowsky Elsa Ross Eva Geiringer Schloss Gloria Ungar Joseph Aleksander Amrom Deutsch Renee Firestone Henry Oster Ella Mandel Morris Price Jack Lewin William (Bill) Harvey Betty Cohen Elisabeth Mann

20 24 28 32 36 40 44 48 52 56 60 64 68 76 80 84 88 92 96 100 104 108 112 116

Drawings

121

Exhibition Checklist Glossary Acknowledgments

134 136 138

Meditation on Facing Survival

Selma Holo

Portraits of Life in Death

Stephen Smith

Bearing Witness

John Nava

The Art of Testimony

Michael Renov

Artistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Statement

David Kassan

20 24 28 32 36 40 44 48 52 56 60 64 68 76 80 84 88 92 96 100 104 108 112 116

Drawings

121

Exhibition Checklist Glossary Acknowledgments

134 136 138

Meditation on Facing Survival So much of the critically acclaimed painting, sculpture and installation work of the last century in America has been mysterious, coded and inaccessible to all but the most committed contemporary art lovers. Those aficionados have accepted and even enjoyed the role of excavating artists’ feelings, motivations, and often ambiguous meanings when attending prestigious museums, galleries, and public art spaces. On entering, they don their de-coding mindset, knowing that this is a part of “our” cultural condition. And, thus, the satisfaction they earn as viewers often arises from solving the puzzle of what an artist is implying or even is trying to communicate. And so, they/we preen as they/we grasp that intent, gratified that we are among the elect who “get it.” David Kassan, though, makes art about real human beings, for people at all levels of society. He wants to memorialize something that he knows is important; he wants everyone to get it; not just a pre-determined art crowd. Kassan is assuming when he paints, the struggle to discover the truth of his subject—and to provide access to that truth through the ancient tradition of portraiture. He is an artist who is not transferring an intellectual problem onto the viewer, nor is he passing on an obligation to figure out what he, the artist, really means. Kassan is, rather, giving us, with his art a portal to empathy, and eschewing obfuscation. He has worked hard to capture something essential and intrinsic to his subjects’ lives, even as he is fully aware of the impossibility of meeting that challenge. That is, Kassan long ago realized that capturing the “essential” is an illusion, as human life is always in flux. But, notably, that does not stop him in his artistic efforts. And so, David Kassan tirelessly works to convey, through portraiture, a sense of a particularly dynamic relationship between his sitters’ pasts and their present lives. He succeeds in locating that relationship as a painting on a canvas wherein he has done his utmost to depict each single soul. Kassan succeeds in doing this while simultaneously drawing out from them their ultimately undescribable histories of imprisonment at Auschwitz, along with the unique state of dignified survival that each has since achieved. I know all this now. But, when John Nava, the accomplished repre sentational painter with whom we at Fisher have had a long creative relationship, first approached me and said: “There is an artist you have to meet. He paints survivors of the Holocaust, but as you have never seen them before. Please visit him,” I first resisted his entreaty. I resisted because I have seen many realist painters who, although highly skilled, were communicating in ways that were drearily academic or treacly sentimental; were mere reportage or were repetitive of the Old Masters’ techniques. In other words, their art brought us nowhere we had not 6

already traveled. I procrastinated about the studio visit. But, as Nava persisted and I allowed myself to become increasingly acquainted with David’s work through his website, I ultimately understood that there was something happening under Kassan’s hand, brush and sensibility that I would be wise to heed. I saw, as I began to know the work, an attempt not to stop time, as Herman Hesse suggested was art’s purpose, but rather to picture a life’s long history, its traumas and its achievements. Without kitsch and without cliché, David’s portraits of Holocaust survivors who were able to survive survival are celebrations. Each and every one of them is its own variety of testimony to hard-won victory: to the persistence of that singular soul, that self, that being. And each and every one of these survivors would also be the first to say that their survival was the result, along with resilience, of great good fortune in the face of the concerted efforts by the Nazis to eradicate that single soul as well as the souls of all Jews, from the face of this earth. But, why is Kassan’s realism so powerful? Wouldn’t the abstraction of a Mark Rothko whose finest work induces heightened and profound spiritual states do just as well? Or, perhaps the surrealism of a Salvador Dali whose Christ on the Cross brings some spectators to their knees? Or any number of modern artists who invoke the suffering attendant to the univer sal human condition? Indeed, if we look at art history, there is always the cycling in and out of the more abstract and the more real. Realism is alternately in favor and out of favor due to the needs of artist and society over the course of time. Sometimes realism is scorned; sometimes honored; sometimes it thrives and sometimes it shrivels. But, for the better part of the 20th century realism has been a step-child as other movements that universalized or de-particularized the human experience came and went, were adored and abhorred. Skill and craft, drawing and rendering were denied their value in the interests of the original, the highly individualistic, the conceptual, the flamboyantly incomprehensible. Highly influential art was following what Ezra Pound, the seminal poet of Modernism had ordered: “Make it new!” But, if one takes a longer perspective than that of Modernism and its trajectory, we see that there has always been a role for realism as a kind of life-line for the arts, a place of return when “the new” has gotten to be too deeply enmeshed in itself, in theory, in novelty, and too far removed from the empathic. And, that for me is the key to the realism that David Kassan’s work embodies—now, at this time when the pendulum has made realism thoroughly unfashionable among elite museum and gallery goers. He, through his portraiture in Facing Survival, has embraced empathy and by its concreteness, its recognizability, has magnified its impact many-fold. When Kassan finally proposed his project to me it was not just to portray one survivor, but rather to portray 11 specific survivors in one polyp tych (a many-paneled painting). He was not saying that these survivors knew each other, but rather that, by bringing them together in a single project, he would be crafting each single individual into a kind of unspoken community. And, it was to advance our consciousness of the Holocaust that David sought to represent not a single history of pain and the memory of that pain, but a group of especially resilient individuals whose long lives and never sufficiently repeated stories would enhance each other and 7

all who saw the work. Kassan wanted to paint individuals whom he believed would “recognize” each other, and whom we would recognize by virtue of certain shared qualities. He also wanted to communicate that each one of these individuals had re-invented themselves, had been re-born after surviv ing the Holocaust. Each one of them did this after the War, after leaving the Displaced Person camps, after re-settling in a foreign land, after learning new languages, new trades, new skills. David Kassan, thus, unlocked a larger history than that of any single person he painted, while never diminishing each one’s uniqueness, particularity, special history of strength and survival. David Kassan understood realism in art as the only way for him to make the resilience he was honoring felt by the largest audience. He eschewed a generalized or abstracted or conceptual approach. He did not want to make it new. Instead he wanted to make it indelible. And, so his painting represents the memories and the current truths of John Adler, Louise and Lazar Farkas, Roslyn Goldofsky and Bella Stuzl, Sam Goldofsky, Pinchas Gutter, Andy Holten, Joshua Kaufman, Roman Kent, Raya Kovensky, Ed Mosberg, Hanna Pankowsky, Elsa Ross, Eva Schloss, Gloria Unger, Joseph Aleksander, Amrom Deutsch, Renee Firestone, Henry Oster, Ella Mandel, Morris Price, Jack Lewin, William (Bill) Harvey, Betty Cohen, and Elisabeth Mann. Because we all know that so much of what we call memory shape-shifts and moves and metamorphoses over time, and also because so much memory is denied by the deniers, David Kassan sought to paint what he could of these survivors’ realities and truths while they were still alive, while they still had beating hearts. Notably, David Kassan does not just study a subject and paint how he or she looks. That is a trick to which David will not stoop. He interviews his subjects. He films them. He begins to know them. He sketches them. He knows them better. He makes up his mind. He changes his mind. Out of this probing, and after an infinity of conversations, the painting grows, matures. I have had the privilege of watching David work, of seeing the people and the portraits that comprise this exhibition emerge on the canvas from unfinished preliminary ideas, to fully achieved images of noble human beings. A contribution of this exhibition, Facing Survival, is that it preserves and shares with the museum-goer, the remnants, the sketch books, the videos of creation that reflect each and every subject from the artist’s first efforts until resolution. Still, it needs to be stressed that the other contribution is seeing the painting whole with all 11 survivors in place. Because there is a difference from viewing a single portrait and seeing the polyptich as it was intended to be seen. That is the heart of this exhibition. In the future, the portraits will probably be broken up, will reside in private collections or museums, and the figures painted with a “community” in mind will return to being isolated individuals. Of course, they will always be powerful portraits, whether alone or in their group. But their sense of the shared history of Auschwitz will be altered when they are separated. This exhibition holds its special power because it is a testimony reflecting the subjects’ experiences, but it is also David Kassan’s testimony. They are represented here by Kassan as they could never fully represent themselves due to their intrinsic modesty and the difficulty of telling their stories, of revealing their deep-pain. Kassan’s paintings make clear that he understands that what they endured went beyond words and the capacity of words to explain. Hence his project: Facing Survival. 8

The purpose of this exhibition, Facing Survival, is also to bring distinct but related forms of testimonial together. It brings to the foreground a body of testimony that extends beyond the verbal, communicating in a visual language of its own, of art. This testimony, Kassan’s art, leaves another kind of indelible extension of the histories each individual lived. It is, above all, an attempt to defy generalization about the horror of Auschwitz, and to go beyond the incomprehensible and ungraspable number: “six million.” To accomplish that goal of concreteness as best we can in the exhibition, we are including also the interactive testimony (Dimensions in Testimony) created by the Shoah Foundation that allows technology to be its own kind of witness to the survivors’ legacies. We are also including in the exhibition some portions of the survivors’ spoken and transcribed testimony (their complete testimonies are preserved in the Shoah Foundation). We are doing all of this so that the multi- dimensionality of their experience of Auschwitz and surviving Auschwitz and thriving in America is never flattened out into one single style of interpretation or consigned to a single narrative device. Selma Holo, Ph.D. Executive Director, USC Museums Director, USC Dornsife International Museum Institute Professor, Art History

Portraits of Life in Death

1 Jan Machnowski, Portrait of prisoner Andrezj Rablin, 1943, paper, ink, paper glued on cardboard, 14.3 × 12.2 in, KL Auschwitz From the collections of the AuschwitzBirkenau State Museum © Estate of Jan Machnowski

2 Photo of Dina Babbitt in 2006 © Peter DaSilva/ The New York Times/Redux

David Kassan’s painting immediately struck me as being the work of testi mony. But as testimony is usually experienced as a narrative delivered or written by an individual who experienced events personally, it was not an obvious conclusion to draw. If what I was seeing on the canvas was indeed a work of testimony, I had to understand more about the art and the artist. Before turning to Kassan’s work, I needed to delve back in time to see if there were precedents that linked testimony and Holocaust portraiture that one could draw on. The first such portraits were painted by artists, who were themselves prisoners, working as the ash of the crematoria chimneys settled around them. The Nazis had an uncanny ability to position high culture and brutal sadism in close proximity. Work from Auschwitz still exists in the collection of the Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum where among the pieces is a charcoal sketch of camp inmate Andrzeja Rablin (fig. 1). The piece is painfully and skillfully crafted by artist Jan Machnowski, who was himself incarcerated in the camp along with other Polish artists in 1940. Rablin, the subject, was also one of the first prisoners in Auschwitz; he was issued inmate number 1410. Three years after their arrival, when Machnowski sketched Rablin, the artist mutes the telltale sign of the striped uniform and his camp number is suspiciously absent. Machnowski does not depict Rablin as malnourished, or cowed by his experience. Instead there is a sharpness in Rablin’s features, defiance in his eyes, strength in adversity. Rablin’s reality was a harsh daily routine in Auschwitz, a struggle for survival, which he relays in his written testimony after the war. At the time the sketch was made, the chances of either artist or subject surviving were very low. The artist clearly intended that Rablin would be remembered by resilience and his determination to overcome extreme adversity. Machnowski bears witness to Rablin’s resilience. It is testimony, with no words. Dina Gottliebova was a Jewish artist (fig. 2), initially conscripted by Dr. Eugene Konig to paint for the SS, then by Dr. Josef Mengele to paint portraits in the Gyspy Camp at Auschwitz-Birkenau. Gottliebova, who went on to survive and become an animator at the Walt Disney Company, worked in the room next to Mengele, who was making a study of the physical appearance of the Roma. Among the surviving seven works in the Auschwitz- Birkenau State Muesum collection is an image of a woman in a blue headscarf, entitled “Zigeuner-Mischling aus Deutschland” (Part-Gypsy from Germany). Like the Jews, Roma living across the Third Reich were subject to race laws that saw many tens of thousands deported to camps, and in many cases resulted in their murder. In her USC Shoah Foundation testimony, Gottliebova names the woman as Celine, describing her as one of her friends in the camp. Gottliebova describes how she picked out Celine to paint because she seemed disoriented and sad. She

discovered that Celine’s two-month old baby had died two weeks previously. Over the several days that Gottliebova painted her, she acquired white bread for her subject. Initially she had decided to paint her with the scarf hanging loose, but Mengele intervened because he wanted to see the physical detail of Celine’s ear. The way in which Gottliebova paints Celine bears witness to her remarkable dignity, providing testimony to her life and courage. Celine was gassed a few weeks after the portrait was complete. This painting is known today as the Roma Madonna, who of course has no child. Mengele was sitting several feet away and had no idea that Gottliebova was creating a testimony of Celine’s life right in front of him and with his approval. During the liberation of Europe from Nazi domination, war artists were sometimes present with the liberating forces. British artist Eric Wilfred Taylor enlisted as a war artist with the British Royal Engineers and was one of the first eyewitnesses of Bergen-Belsen. He not only captured the large and devastating landscape of the camp, but also its more intimate human consequences. His image of a young skeletal boy (fig. 3) gives an immediate glimpse into a long and painful story of the young man’s survival. Unlike the Auschwitz paintings, Taylor captures the dire consequences of concentration camp life in the expression on the young man’s face and body. It was only a matter of time after the Second World War before artistically talented survivors would use portraiture to convey their own experiences. Roman Halter, a survivor from Chodecz, Poland, who survived the Lodz ghetto and Auschwitz-Birkenau death camp, frequently uses stylized portraits to tell the story of his family (fig. 4). Halter does not use realism in his portraits. Instead the face of the survivor becomes the story itself. Memory seeps into the human form, faces, words, invective, sacred tradition, all testament to the overwhelming power of memory, a memory he is not able to convey in words. Halter did not give an audiovisual testimony. The clues to his testimony are all to be found in his works of art. And there alone. David Kassan joins a long history of artists responding to the Holocaust and its survivors. But Kassan paints from an entirely different perspective to the artists who lived through and even painted during the Holocaust. None of his subjects were meant to survive. And yet all of them did, and lived to old age. The wrinkles on their faces and hands are in themselves testament to their physical resilience. Kassan places them far out of reach of the Nazis and their destructive genocidal world. In the portraits, it is clear that these individuals outlived their oppressors and are no longer victims. They are dignified. They display no anger or bitterness. There is wisdom and depth in their eyes. They tell a story with no words. “Testimony” is redolent of words—words in written statement, words provided by a witness in evidence of a particular happening or truth. But the alternative meaning of testimony is in the context of proof being provided by the existence of something, which need not be in words. Almost all of the survivors of the Holocaust in Kassan’s collection of portraits have given an audio-visual testimony to USC Shoah Foundation or some other collection. Some have given multiple interviews, or made a

3 Eric Wilfred Taylor, A Young Boy from Belsen Concentration Camp, 1945, watercolor, 22.9 × 18.7 in, Imperial War Museum, Art. IWM ART LD 5585 © Imperial War Museum

4 Roman Halter, Starved Faces, 1945, oil on canvas, 35.8 × 35.8 in, Imperial War Museum, Art.IWM ART 17257 © Imperial War Museum © The Estate of Roman Halter

Portraits of Life in Death

2 Photo of Dina Babbitt in 2006 © Peter DaSilva/ The New York Times/Redux

3 Eric Wilfred Taylor, A Young Boy from Belsen Concentration Camp, 1945, watercolor, 22.9 × 18.7 in, Imperial War Museum, Art. IWM ART LD 5585 © Imperial War Museum

4 Roman Halter, Starved Faces, 1945, oil on canvas, 35.8 × 35.8 in, Imperial War Museum, Art.IWM ART 17257 © Imperial War Museum © The Estate of Roman Halter

documentary, or published a memoir. They have created and bequeathed words. That self-motivated feverish activity to ensure that their story is told, is conscious, as they seek to establish their own story in the historical record. Kassan lifts these individuals out of the world of words because he understands that testimony in its essence is being. In so doing he lifts the viewer out of the world of words, out of the camps and the forests and the hiding places, away from the gas chambers, the starvation and the squalor, and creates a space for being; for being alive; for being human; for being old and dignified and wise; for being defiant; for simply being themselves as individuals, and numbers no longer. Because being is the ultimate testament to their individuality, their humanity and survival. Stephen Smith, Ph.D. Finci-Viterbi Executive Director USC Shoah Foundation UNESCO Chair on Genocide Education

Bearing Witness What are we looking at? A group of older people, men and women, who regard us evenly without any particular expression of emotion. They betray no anxiety, no wince of pain, no brow furrowed with concern or anger. They receive our gaze calmly. What is striking is the vividness of their presence. They are with us. This, we discover, is astonishing. Their warm presence is, in fact, an inspiring testament. They embody a profound humanity undimmed by the most harrowing experiences of horror. They knew paralyzing fears, endured unimaginable brutality and sickening cruelty. They suffered terrible loss. And they manifested amazing courage. And now, here they are, with us. The clear-eyed and composed figures we meet in this painting are the people David Kassan encountered. Encountered as they are today—after everything. Their searing histories remain unseen but their presence proves the defeat of all that darkness. This is the presence that David’s work gives us. This is the reality of his experience with these individuals here and now. I don’t think it would occur to Kassan to make a depiction of the terrible scenes of the Shoah. Given the existing graphic evidence of this history— mostly photographic and contemporary—he might feel a certain gratuitous presumption in such illustration. Instead he adopts an iconic mode of presentation whereby the personages we meet do not enact their stories. Often in traditional icons, surrounding images reference the chronicles of the central figure. Here images drawn from Auschwicz—an aerial map, tragic remnants of luggage from a doomed journey—contextualize this “icon.” Principally we feel the grave presence of each. And David’s deeply felt rendering of each gives us this presence. Kassan’s mode of work always grows out of an actual engagement with his subjects. Every mark is a record of a specific observation. Every recorded observation fleshes out a deeper understanding. For David, drawing is understanding. The relentless scrutiny we see in Kassan’s work reveals his drive to understand profoundly. That process of lapidary excavation demands direct and extensive collaboration with the subject. This means a real and significant experience both for the artist and his sitter. The resulting images make tangible, as I think only painting can, this touching encounter. David’s searching eye and hand bring the sitter to us with an uncanny presence. Seeing through the artist’s eye we feel the presence he felt and are moved as he has been as well. David’s great painting presents a frieze of eleven figures of the Shoah. Making this monumental picture has been a part of the artist’s personal journey in connecting to his own heritage. That legacy had been somewhat remote for Kassan. A chance commission that involved a survivor of the Holocaust—never realized—and experiences in Israel inspired Kassan. He began his Edut project of connecting with and painting survivors of the Shoah. Through this undertaking he realized a new closeness and pride in his heritage. The enormous dignity and humanity of his subjects brought him this unanticipated gift. 13

We find these eleven figures grouped in a large format painting. This sort of thing is usually reserved for society’s designated luminaries— politicians, royalty, saints, celebrities, aristocrats, autocrats, and plutocrats. The museums of the world are filled with masterworks made by artists of genius portraying not always worthy subjects. We can think of the vainglorious militia so mysteriously rendered in Rembrandt’s Night Watch, the assembled groups of Hals’ earthbound guildsmen or the lacerating depiction of Spain’s royal family by Goya. David adopts this grand format of portraiture but does not expend his mastery on the grandiose. Instead he gives us the presence of eleven unsung individuals, all survivors of Auschwitz, with all their manifest humanity and strength. These eleven magnify our understanding of the breadth of the death camp horrors and of the aftermath. They stand for the many who were also caught up by a merciless fate and who, wounded but undiminished, went on. Their presence, so beautifully conveyed by David Kassan, might help us all, “in the teeth of the wind,” to find our own courage. John Nava, Artist

The Art of Testimony “Testimony is the literary—or discursive—mode par excellence of our times … our era can precisely be defined as the age of testimony.”1

What precisely does it mean to say that testimony is the literary—or artistic— mode of our times? Literary critic Shoshana Felman’s claim was made some time ago in relation to the poetry, memoirs, plays and films focused on the experiences of Holocaust survivors. By the early 1960s, the first film version of The Diary of Anne Frank had been released, Primo Levi’s Survival in Auschwitz and Elie Wiesel’s Night had been published in English and the Eichmann trial in Jerusalem had focused the world's attention on the horrors of the genocide. The following decades witnessed a boom in Holocaust museum and memorial construction worldwide. Most notable perhaps was the massive effort to gather and preserve the memory of Holocaust survivors undertaken by several institutions including Yad Vashem in Jerusalem, the Fortunoff Archive at Yale and the Shoah Foundation created by Steven Spielberg in the aftermath of the success of Schindler’s List. Alas it was not just the Holocaust that has occasioned the testimonial act. The recurrence of genocides over the past century (Armenia, the Shoah, Nanjing, Cambodia, Rwanda) as well as the intransigence of sexual violence and the realization of widespread PTSD within the veteran community has rendered witness bearing an unmistakable feature of contemporary life. But art in the aftermath of the Shoah was, from the outset, a vexed concept. Theodor W. Adorno’s postwar pronouncement—“to write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric”—stands as an influential ethical challenge to the aestheticizing of suffering. Resistance of this sort may help explain why first-person accounts of trauma—the unadorned account of the eye witness rather than the translation of that experience into art or commerce—have emerged so forcefully. For testimony is typically less about beauty and more about truth, a particular kind of truth. Testimony is a transfer of knowledge, often dread knowledge, to a juridical or ethical other. But testimony is a peculiar kind of knowledge in that it may gain power through its isolation. In this way it is the opposite of science founded on principles of reproducibility. The speech acts of the lone witness, the last survivor, the sharing out of the previously unspoken or unsayable— these are instances of the testimonial act under greatest pressure and with the highest moral stakes attached. But an even more important feature of the act of bearing witness is that it has the power to produce a “witnessing public,” that is, an audience hailed as willing to take responsibility for the suffering of others. This means that, in opening ourselves up to the stories of others, we ourselves become second-order witnesses. We share a knowledge that has the power to haunt and unsettle. Now the responsibility falls to us to share that story with others, to live with the pain of that telling and even struggle to find redress for the suffering.

1 Shoshana Felman, “Education and Crisis, or the Vicissitudes of Teaching,” in Shoshana Felman and Dori Laub, Testimony: Crises of Witnessing in Literature, Psychoanalysis, and History (New York: Routledge, 1992), 5.

The Art of Testimony “Testimony is the literary—or discursive—mode par excellence of our times … our era can precisely be defined as the age of testimony.”1

2 Emmanuel Levinas, Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, Alphonso Lingis, trans. (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, 1981), 29. 3 Ibid., 15.

And here’s a point to keep in mind. In an age of seemingly ubiquitous audio-visual testimony, those willing to listen to tales of great sadness and impossible choices are often also asked to look at those who do the telling. It is to the face of the survivor that our attention so often turns for it is there we see the great paradox of our moral engagement. The face of the witness is at once a point of first and deepest contact. What does it mean to look into the eyes of another, to meet an unflinching gaze. Whether in life, on a canvas or on screen, to return the gaze is to acknowledge an innate kinship, a shared status in the world. Ethical philosopher Emmanual Levinas sees the face-to-face encounter as the bedrock of human identity. “I am ordered to the face of the Other,” he writes. For the philosopher, to be human is to be called into an inescapable obligation “as though an order slipped into my consciousness like a thief.” But why paradox? Because the face of the Other is also not ours. To encounter it is to discover its exquisite unicity. No two faces, even those of twin sisters, are perfect replicas. For Levinas, the Other is irreducibly itself in its uniqueness and specificity, beyond the bounds of all our efforts to assimilate it or reduce it to a version of ourselves. In every encounter, Levinas beholds “the supreme concreteness of the face of the other man.”2 In the life-size portraits David Kassan offers us, we are introduced to a kind of testimony bereft of language. We hear no words of suffering, loss or survival yet we sense a formidable kind of truth-telling at work, the sharing of a particular species of knowledge (an unsayable saying) embodied by the subject, rendered by the artist, offered up to the viewer. Not everyone will opt in. Levinas has written of the risk we take by our exposure to Otherness, often expressed in corporeal terms. Our proximity requires us to acknowledge and in fact mirror a depth of exposure and vulnerability that he calls a “stripping beyond nudity, beyond forms.”3 So the art of testimony is not for everyone. My Yiddishe grandmother, like many others of her generation, was fond of the saying “old age is not for sissies.” Something of the sort obtains here as well. For make no mistake about it: To share space and time with Kassan’s figures—humanly scaled, unflinching of gaze, signifying mightily through gesture, garb and expression—is to take responsibility. This is not linguistic utterance but embodied testimony; it speaks a silent tongue. Yet, I predict, each of us will discover an uncanny capacity to translate this speechless discourse if we linger long enough, if we reflect in sufficient depth on the gestures—the salute, the linked arms, the recalcitrant scowl—and the textures—of pigment and brushstroke. I encourage you to do so. For it is through such frank encounters that we build bridges to a dark past but also develop our capacity to come into kinship with Others, even those from whom we might, in other circumstances, turn away. These eleven portraits allow us, as with all art, to enter temporarily into the imaginative world of others—that of the artist but also, by inference, the self-imagining of the subjects. But the Art of Testimony does more. It also allows us to test our moral reflexes, to plumb the depths of our willingness to encounter Others in all their exposure and fragility and in so doing reaffirm our own humanity. Michael Renov, Haskell Wexler Chair in Documentary, Vice Dean of Academic Affairs, USC School of Cinematic Arts

Artist’s Statement Paintings record existence; they tell us there was a person who lived, who had a face, who had a personality. The fundamental elements of painting are time, texture, color, and depth. These elements are how we as humans interact with the world. It is this commonality, between the human experience and the painting experience, which transports us to when a painting was made, and is a connection linking us to the past. The author William Faulkner once wrote, “The aim of every artist is to arrest motion, which is life, by artificial means and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again since it is life.” A painting is an object that reactivates and whose subject confronts us every time it is seen. Art has played an important role in the documentation, retelling and education of the Holocaust. Many prisoners in concentration camps documented the events of their lives through art, creating their works in the camps and ghettos, while others used art to express their experience after liberation. A number of survivors turned to art as an outlet for their trauma. Many found their experiences difficult to talk about and in the decades immediately after the war, they were not always encouraged to discuss them. Their works capture the ongoing legacy of loss, desperation and exclusion. These deeply personal accounts are powerful and authentic testimony. The paintings in this exhibition follow a lineage of art as documentary from a different perspective, by portraying the witnesses rather than what they witnessed. “When you listen to a witness, you become a witness,” are words by novelist and political activist, Elie Wiesel, that have become my mantra. Words imbue my work so that each painting becomes the embodiment of a witness and passes their testimony onto the viewer. Each viewer is confronted by living testimony through my humble attempt to capture the subtle emotion and life written on the individuals’ faces. In a recent interview with Steven Spielberg about Schindler’s List, Spielberg recounted an on-set conversation with Niusia Horowitz, the young girl Oskar Schindler kissed which led to his brief arrest. As Spielberg tells it, she said to him, “I want to tell you my story.” Spielberg replied, “Well, I’m telling your story.” Horowitz stated, “Oh that’s nothing. That was only a small part of my life. I want to tell you my entire story. What my life was like. Who I am. I want you to see me. You tell my story so that story can inform everybody about what happened to me and others like me.” Learning Niusia’s entire story first-hand makes her relatable, it makes her human. She is returned the humanity that the Nazis tried to take from her. Her testimony connects us with our own humanity, makes us all hate less and empathize more with marginalized groups in today’s society who are being dehumanized. Firsthand accounts, like Niusia’s, make all of us more empathic. These life-sized paintings strive to document each individual’s unique history, a sense of their experiences during the Holocaust, as well as their full lives in an attempt to capture their spirit, pain and dignity. My paintings engage the viewer in a face-to-face conversation; they are visual 17

2 Emmanuel Levinas, Otherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence, Alphonso Lingis, trans. (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, 1981), 29. 3 Ibid., 15.

representations and extensions of the archive of testimony that Steven Spielberg and the USC Shoah Foundation fought hard to build over the last 25 years. About 5 years ago, a collector of mine from Israel asked if I could paint his mother-in-law. I rarely get or take commissions. I really appreciated his interest in my work, but I wasn’t taking on commissioned work at the time. This commission was different; the subject was a survivor of the Shoah. I was immediately interested in meeting her. Later that week he asked his mother-in-law to pose and showed her my work. Unfortunately, she politely declined to be painted. I was heartbroken having thought a lot about the painting and was excited to learn more about her story and to connect with it through my work. I had a very eclectic early life, being born in Arkansas then moving to Germany at one and a half years old, and living in Europe for three years before we moved back to the States. Both of my parents were Jewish, but my brothers and I never grew up with the religion or the community. I’m not sure why. My father was a career pilot in the Air Force for 22 years and my family traveled all over the world every couple of years. So maybe they just weren’t in a place long enough to put down roots in any local Jewish communities. I grew up confused about religion and being Jewish, I didn’t know what it meant. There wasn’t a very large Jewish community at my elementary, middle or high school; in retrospect, maybe there was, but my parents didn’t seek it out. I regret that being Jewish wasn’t something I was proud of as a kid, it seemed like something to hide. I had a number of minor antiSemitic incidents happen to me that I didn’t understand, but made me feel like I was somehow different from everyone else at a time when I wanted to be accepted. Being from a military family, I already felt like an outsider. Without any particular religion growing up, I instinctively shied away from my ethnic heritage and never thought about exploring Judaism until after I moved to New York City. There I met, studied, and became inspired by mostly Jewish artists like Burton Silverman, Harvey Dinnerstein, Max Ginsburg and Israel Hershberg, to name a few. My maternal grandmother’s side of the family was from Poland. We don’t know if we lost family in the Holocaust because she really didn’t know much about her family’s history, when they had come to America, or who had been left behind. On my father’s side of the family, it’s a different story. My grandfather escaped the ethnic cleansing by the Cossacks on the border of Romania and the Ukraine in 1917 to come to America. Unfortunately, I never had the opportunity to meet my grandfather, who was estranged from my family because he left my grandmother when my father was 15 years old. Growing up, my father didn’t talk to me about his father. When I was older, I found out my grandfather wrote a history of how his family lived back then and how they fled the pogroms to make it to Ellis Island in 1917. About a month after the collector’s mother-in-law commission fell through, I had a studio visit from a student of mine who took a painting workshop with me in Israel five months earlier. I told her the story, expressing my heartbreak over the painting that would never be. She said that her parents are both survivors and lived in New York City. I contacted her father right away and planned to meet him at Gallery Henoch in Chelsea to 18

film an interview and photograph him for the first painting in the series. After painting her father, Sam Goldofsky, and thinking about his story of escape, capture, and ultimately his survival, I couldn’t help but connect his experience to my paternal grandfather’s story of survival. This series started with the purpose of getting to know one survivor and documenting her firsthand account of the Holocaust. Since then, its scope has broadened to gathering information, filming interviews, and creating paintings as testimony of the many different perspectives of survival during the Holocaust, as well as the full lives survivors and their families have led in its aftermath. As firsthand testimonies of the atrocities and lives lost during the Shoah disappear, the expansion of social media and internet connectedness is quickly giving rise to a growth of anti-Semitism, hate groups and Holocaust deniers in America and around the world. With that said, it is clearer today how important it is to document these memories and experiences. Testimony is an effective weapon in countering hate group propaganda and racism. Survivors are ambassadors for positive change, love, acceptance and tolerance in our tumultuous world. The goal of this series is to protect all human rights and promote ethnic equality by increasing awareness about the close parallel between the experiences of Shoah survivors’ and members of ethnic groups that have previously been, or currently are being, dehumanized. By documenting living witnesses of Holocaust, we not only honor the subject of these paintings, but in an unseen way, honor the family members of survivors who were murdered. It is an honor to embed survivors’ biographies and lived experiences into their portraits to eternally record and preserve their existence so these testimonies can never be denied nor forgotten. David Kassan

My name is John Adler. I was born September 17, 1923 in Goldberg, Germany. My mother had a store. They had to give up the store because antisemitism became strong. She was a nice person, loved by the whole family. [My father] was a house painter. They had no problem with the neighbors, but as time evolved, they all became partially Nazis. I remember on Kristallnacht [in November 1938] the synagogue was burned. Burned to the ground. I was standing at the window, watching the flames. Oh, my, I was very angry. Very, very angry—they’re burning MY synagogue. The fire brigades came and were told to let it burn. They were standing around. There was one family living across from the synagogue and they just disappeared. That prompted all Jews to realize that you cannot live in Germany, because there were some that had thought, “it can’t last. Hitler can’t last; it’s going to blow over.” But it didn’t blow over, obviously. We learned my uncle Jacob was put in jail. He was interrogated and beaten every day. Three weeks later, his wife got a call from the Gestapo that her husband had hung himself.

John Adler, Survivor to Soldier 2018 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 27 × 43 in Vaziri Private Collection 20

After this, all of my cousins and my parents went to travel office to buy tickets for Shanghai, the only country at that time who did not request a visa. In the meantime, I had joined a Jewish club, Bar Kochba. We had meetings, and we were talking about Israel, and I’d made up my mind. That is where I’m going to go if I have to leave Germany, because they’re Jewish. And my parents, of course, said: “No, you’re going with us.” So one Saturday night, when my parents were visiting with someone in the house, I wrote a note, put it on the kitchen table, broke my piggy bank, and left. I bought a one-way ticket to Berlin to get a visa for Palestine. It took a lot of begging and they finally said ok. I went to a preparation camp for life in a kibbutz in a village between Breslau and Berlin. I opened up like a butterfly. I left

John Adler, Survivor to Soldier 2018 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 27 × 43 in Vaziri Private Collection 20

Germany with this group on August 30, 1939, one day before the invasion of Poland. My mother had sent my passport to Berlin. One day before we were to leave, my passport was missing. It was a tragedy. In the morning, the director called Berlin and asked for permission to hire a car so that he and I can drive to Breslau so I can plead with them to give me an exit visa. I had no travel permit. We boarded an Italian ship. When I arrived in Palestine in Haifa, there were schoolchildren and flags and they sang the Hatikvah, and I was happy. Shortly after I turned 18, I joined the army. We were transferred to Egypt. The army was not fun. Three years in the desert, the Sahara, was no fun. About halfway through [WW2] I was called to the commandant’s office and he had a telegram for me. It told me that my parents are alive and well in Shanghai. They had received an affidavit to come to the United States. And frankly, I had promised them to go wherever you can and I’ll follow. I came on a former Liberty Boat—and when the ship came into New York through the Statue of Liberty, we cried and we laughed.

John Adler, Survivor to Soldier 2018 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 27 × 43 in Vaziri Private Collection 20

I am Louise Farkas. At birth my name was Lilly Kahan. Leah is my Hebrew name. I was born on February 3, 1924 in Sighet. My father had a dairy business. I finished two years of high school under the Hungarians, then they said no Jews at school. That was in 1941. After Pesach [Passover] 1944, things were very bad, you couldn’t go out in the street. They listened to what you are saying, they were talking about ghetto, where we were going to go. If you had anything of value, you had to trade it in, there was a place where you had to bring it. In the spring of 1944, everybody was taken to the ghetto. The town had two ghettos. We didn’t have cars there, horse and buggy took us, the linen, the clothing and the beds. We came to our aunt’s house. She gave us a room for the whole family, seven people in one room. And we were happy that we were together. It was the family. We didn’t think that life is going to end at this point. In the ghetto, there was this German soldier who says: “You’re Jewish?” I figure what can they do, I’m in the ghetto already, I told him the truth. He says: “Tell your parents not to go anywhere, because they are taking you to a place and they’ll kill you. They killed thousands of Jews in Poland. Don’t go.” And I go in, my father came from shul, it was Friday night and he said: “My child, you have fever!” He didn’t believe me. Nobody believed. They said: “The Germans are educated peo ple, this could not happen.” And then we were deported.

Louise and Lazar Farkas, Love and Resilience 2017 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 46 × 42 in Private Lender 24

We arrived to Auschwitz May 23. They cut our hair, we were laughing, we did not recognize each other. We were not hungry yet. We never went back to that room where our clothes was. We settled in lower bunk, the three of us, sisters. It was happiness, we were together. They took transports. You had to volunteer, “who knows how to sew, who knows how

Louise and Lazar Farkas, Love and Resilience 2017 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 46 × 42 in Private Lender 24

to make shoes.” I said I am not going anywhere because they’re not going to let us go together and I don’t want to separate from my sisters. We stayed in Auschwitz. We went on train, cattle wagon, they loaded us and took us to Ravensbrück. I was sick there, I would say we were there two, three weeks. And then in Barth, it was winter until May, so I would say five months. We were happy there, we were clean. Once my sister got a package. We did not know where from, we were hoping it was from our father. There was dry bread, a box of sardines. We opened the sardines and the eleven of us ate it, you know, everybody got one fish. And it gave us hope our father sent it from somewhere. In May of 1945, we left Barth and were marching somewhere. We were very tired. We see on the left side of the road some woods. It was close to morning, we were very tired, forty kilometers walk. They did not tell us that the Russians are approaching, they did not tell us what happened. We go into the woods and we see Russian soldiers. And they gave us food, so we took bread. We were very weak. We also realized that it was not good to be with the Russians. They looked at you in such a way that you got scared. And there was one guy, he said: “What do you want to do now?” I said I’m going to go home. He says “Don’t go home, go to Israel. It’s not the home you left, you know.” I got married and moved to Czechoslovakia, my husband was from there. Then my uncle sent us an affidavit to come to America. We waited for a few years, but then Commu nists took hold of Czechoslovakia. We came to America on SS Washington, arriving on March 14, 1948. We settled in Brooklyn.

Louise and Lazar Farkas, Love and Resilience 2017 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 46 × 42 in Private Lender 24

My name is Roslyn Goldofsky. My maiden family name was Szarf. Also, my adopted name was Merenstein. In Poland, my Jewish name was Ruchla. During the war, in Polish, I was known as Rózia Borzecka When I came to the States, I became Roslyn. I was born in Piaski Szlacheckie, in the Lublin district of Poland, on March 22, 1929. I have two sisters, Bella and Rivka. Bella is my twin, she is eight hours older then me. We had a windmill, we had a general store and land that was cultivated. The war broke out in 1939. By 1941 we were chased out of our home by the German edicts and we had quarters at a neighbor who gave us something a little better then a barn to live in. A Jew could not maintain their own home, and if they wanted to be free, not go into a ghetto, they had to work for a gentile. So mother farmed us out to gentile friends to stay with them. So that we would not be herded into a ghetto. I was fully aware what was happening to the Jews. The Germans used to close off the ghetto and catch the Jews and send them away—or shoot them. My cousins, two or three of them were shot pretty early.

Bella and Roslyn, Twin Survivors of the Shoah 2016 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 56 × 43 in Dubi Shiff Art Collection Miami, Florida 28

A Jehovah’s witness by the name of Jozef Borzecky, he was a poor man on the fringes of society, he took us in for a full month. My mother had a good rapport with him. I also presume because we had that store and many times they came to buy and they never had money. So I guess he was grateful for that. Also, since he believed what the Book says, he wanted to help another human being. Not only that, he helped to arrange false papers for us. My sister from that time had a different name and she was a friend, not a sister. Mother decided to take us to different locations around Warsaw; she was intelligent, bright and courageous. She claimed we were displaced Poles looking for a home and work. Mother used to tutor us; she used to prepare questions and answers for us. If they ask you this, you say this, if they ask you that, you

Bella and Roslyn, Twin Survivors of the Shoah 2016 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 56 × 43 in Dubi Shiff Art Collection Miami, Florida 28

answer that. She had anticipated questions and answers for us. I learned during the war that if somebody asked me a question to filter first the answer and not readily answer right away. She made us learn Catechism and she instructed us to go to church to observe how the other people act. It saved our life when we were arrested. Then the Russians came. It was 1944, in the fall. We were afraid of rape. I did not fear for myself, I did not look my age, but my sister was a full-blown woman, she was two years older than me. We hid her behind a trapdoor in a cellar. Then, after a few weeks, mother decided she should go to Lublin to see who had survived, and she left me with my older sister. She came back and she said: “You know who is alive? Moshe Merenstein. He wants to marry me.” I said: Marry him.” We all said it. But I could not bring myself to call him father. After the war, everybody wanted to go to the Americas. Who wanted to stay in Poland? They hated us even after the war. I remember when I was a student and walked with some Polish friends on the main street, boys walking opposite us, they used to point out, you see, she is Jewish. They told me they had to tolerate me because I was an excellent student and I could help them in class. You just felt it. When I was a Catholic, as a Pole, I was respected and liked. As a Jew, I was hated. We wanted to leave. We could not stay there.

Bella and Roslyn, Twin Survivors of the Shoah 2016 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 56 × 43 in Dubi Shiff Art Collection Miami, Florida 28

My name is Sam Goldofsky. I was born in Bedzin, Poland, on March 1, 1928. They call me at birth Szlomo. We were a family of five. My sister, my brother and myself. We went to synagogue. We had an active, vibrant community. It was a beautiful life. I believe that character is being built until a certain age. My character was built—I had a wonderful family. When the Germans came in September 1939, we tried to run away. The Germans were with tanks coming right in front of us so we came back to our town. Then all the trouble started. Eventually we were taken away from the house and sent to a ghetto called Kamionka. I think it was the end of 1942. We were pushed into one room. In summer 1943, the ghetto was liquidated. We arrived in a place. We didn’t know it was Auschwitz. There were dogs, Germans with machine guns, and prisoners in striped uniforms. When we came in, we saw a sign arbeit macht frei. We saw a gate, yelling, screaming, and commotion. We were sent into Birkenau. I was made a runner in Auschwitz-Birkenau. I would run from camp to camp with information. For this I received more bread. With whatever I had, I would share with my brother, Isaac.

Sam Goldofsky, Survivor of the Shoah 2015 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 41 × 27 in Brian and Sheri Anderson 32

We were transferred to Auschwitz III, my brother and myself. It was January–February 1944. A French-Jew kapo, Zeppel, took me and my brother and said: “You go in the kitchen to peel potatoes.” I had it a little better, at least I could eat raw carrots and I can bring out food hidden in my pants. I would shove in potatoes, carrots, spinach and bring out to the prisoners. One time, I was caught by the Lagerführer. He asked me to whom I carry this food. I said for myself. I knew I’m going to be dead already, what’s the difference? Why should I take with me some other people? I was stripped, hit 30 times and I passed out. I found myself

Sam Goldofsky, Survivor of the Shoah 2015 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 41 × 27 in Brian and Sheri Anderson 32

on a bed somehow, then I was called into Alois Frey’s personal quarters and made into his butler. I still don’t know why he did it, maybe there’s some respect. Who knows? He gave me a name, Otto. That name remained with me all the time. Even now when I meet somebody from there, he calls me Otto. One day, we were called out in the morning. We saw a hanging platform and it had four ropes hanging down. At the same time, there was four boys. They put them in the gallows. We had to come close to the gallows. And they announced in a threatening voice that because they were trying to run away from here, they are being sentenced to death by hanging. One of the [boys], nice guy, he told us: “Don’t forget us. Take Nekamah—take revenge against them.” And he spit on the face of one of the guards. That was a terrible thing to see. Can’t explain the emotions at that time. They started marching us out of Auschwitz III. We marched through Poland. There was one brutal criminal, a kapo. He caught a boy from France and cut his throat in front of everybody. I’m supposed to be next. But I saved myself. I had some privileges. As he came to cut my throat, I had a big fight with him and he couldn’t cut my throat. I really beat him up. I don’t like to be showed off [as a survivor]. I always cover my number—I don’t want people to be sorry for me.

Sam Goldofsky, Survivor of the Shoah 2015 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 41 × 27 in Brian and Sheri Anderson 32

My name is Pinchas Gutter, and I was born in Łódź in 1932. I had a twin sister. We lived a very religious life. For the last 400 years— before the Second World War—my family were all wine makers. My father and my grandfather together owned the largest winery in Poland. I had a very large extended family. I knew between 150 and 200 relatives personally, because we used to get together quite a lot. Our life was very uneventful before the war. My mother, my sister, and I were blonde and blue eyed. We spoke pure Polish like the Poles and could easily dress up and look like Poles. We went down to the railway and we bought tickets and we went to Warsaw. My father was dark and couldn’t use the train because Jews were already not allowed to travel by train. So he smuggled himself on foot, several months until he came in Warsaw. The two-room apartment that my father found happened to be in the ghetto. My father did not believe a word the Germans said. We were kind of semihidden right from the beginning. We did not venture out. We did not do anything. This went on until 1943. We were betrayed. When they marched us through the streets of the Warsaw Ghetto, there was fire burning on both sides. I remember going through rivers of fire. We were walking in the middle and on both sides the buildings were burning. And even then people would break away from the column and try and run away.

Pinchas Gutter, Survivor of Majdanek 2019 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 24 × 30 in Collection of the Artist 36

When we arrived in Majdanek, we were pushed out of these wagons and separated into men and women, and then, grownups and children. My father told meI must say I’m 18 years old. My mother, somehow lost sight of my sister. My sister was kind of pushed towards the children. My mother was screaming. And they pushed my mother towards that part where the children were. And a lot of other women went there too. That’s the last time I saw my sister and my mother.

Pinchas Gutter, Survivor of Majdanek 2019 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 24 × 30 in Collection of the Artist 36

My father was in front of me. He was there one second and then the next second he disappeared. And that was the last time I saw my father. Internally, there were Jewish police. One morning they announced that all the people that are going to be called are going away in railcars, and the others are going to walk. At the beginning, people started forming up and I went out. Suddenly there was a kind of panic—people started realizing that when the Germans start doing something you mustn’t listen. And I remembered what my father did, that he didn’t—so I started running. The Jewish police started looking for everybody. And this policeman that I looked after his wife pulled me out from under the barrack. He told me there’s no point in me hiding because they’ll pull me out and they’ll kill me. And he said “I’m going to do something which maybe will help you.” And he gave me completely new clothing. Then he did something which, again you know this is something that you remember because you think, “Well, that was the last touch that maybe saved my life.” He took a women’s lipstick and rubbed it to my cheeks so I should look healthier. They started pulling people out. And I stood in the front row. And next to me stood my best friend, also a young boy. The German got to him and he pulled him out and then he passed over me.

Pinchas Gutter, Survivor of Majdanek 2019 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 24 × 30 in Collection of the Artist 36

And that was another, I mean, I want to call it a milestone but it wasn’t a milestone, it was a milestone in reverse. It was again a kind of horrendous experience. I felt that I was executed. Because I felt guilty. Because I felt relieved I wasn’t taken. My best buddy who we went through the most atrocious things together, was pulled out and I knew he was going to be shot. So that was that.

Pinchas Gutter, Survivor of Majdanek 2019 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 24 × 30 in Collection of the Artist 36

My name is Andre John Holten. I was born on October 6, 1937 in Hilversum, Holland. My name at birth was Andre Houtkruyer. My name was changed in 1962, when I became a U.S. citizen. I feel it’s easier for my sons to go through life with the name Holten. I was born in Hilversum, a city in Holland. I have very few memories of it but I’ve been back to that town quite a bit. Towards the beginning of the war, my family moved in with my grandparents and we moved to Amsterdam. I was 3 years old when the war started. My first recollection is the Montessori school I went to in 1942. My parents had to wear the Star of David. On Sundays, the housekeeper would take me to Salvation Army meetings. I remember playing with a train under the table. Then I went to Haarlem, to a parochial school. I know that I went to different families, I stayed with one family pretty close to where we lived for a few weeks then I moved to some other. Aunt Nike, who also took me in, was a friend of the family. She was the one who gave me the assumed name Hans Van Heel. Once in a while I went to the Meijers, the family that eventually would take me in and remain my guardians, for dinner and so on. I spent the last year and a half with them, and I stayed with them after the war too. They were wonderful people, especially my foster father who had a big soul. They had three of their own children, then three more they took in, and then me. There were more people they would bring in, people that the church mentioned to them, people who could use a good meal. They just did what was necessary.

Andy Holten, Hidden Child, study 2018 Oil on Moleskin paper 14 ¾ × 12 ¾ in Zepeda Family Private Collection 40

My parents got picked up and arrested in November or December 1944, briefly after that the Germans started looking for me. They knew there was a child. They discovered that Nike was a friend of the family, they arrested her on a tram and took her in. The Meijers found out about it pretty quickly and they panicked that I was at the house. They were afraid she would

Andy Holten, Hidden Child, study 2018 Oil on Moleskin paper 14 ¾ × 12 ¾ in Zepeda Family Private Collection 40

talk; she knew where I was. On a moment’s notice they found this family that lived three houses down and they agreed to take me in for ten days or so. While the Meijers kept looking for a place for me to stay, I stayed in a farm area for four weeks. My foster father would show up every Thursday to see how I was doing. I was pretty unhappy there. One Thursday, he did not show up the whole day. And that was tough on me. But then he showed up the next day and took me back to the house. At that time he realized Nike did not talk and it was safe. The day after Saint Nicholas is a gift-giving holiday for kids and for families in Holland, same as Christmas is here. So the day after, there was a big raid on our street. It happened all of a sudden. We knew that they were going house to house. At lunch time, they had approached our house within about 2 or 3 houses on either side. And they took a lunch break, they quit for lunch, and they never came back after lunch. It was a miracle. I think unconsciously I must have been fearful. I picked up this idea that they were after me, I must keep moving. Unconsciously that idea was developed in me. It still is.

Andy Holten, Hidden Child, study 2018 Oil on Moleskin paper 14 ¾ × 12 ¾ in Zepeda Family Private Collection 40

My name is Joshua Kaufman. They used to call me Sheibe in Yiddish. My Hebrew name was Yehoshua. I was born February 20, 1928 in Debrecen, Hungary. My father was a religious fanatic. Basically, all our family life was Talmud, Torah study. One day the rabbi gave a speech to our parents, “Watch out for your children, there exists a Jewish organization called Hashomer Hacair and they raise children, teenagers to be antireligious, not to eat kosher, boys and girls are together, horrible!” I went to the city and I said “I have to find this organization.” They told me they teach self-protection. When the fascists beat you up, you do not run, you do not cry for help, you stand up and you beat them back. I said this is a very beautiful education. I told them, “Write down my name, I am now a member of your organization.” That was easy to say, but to tell your parents, it was a tragedy for them. No more old Joshua. I was embarrassed to tell my parents. I went to the barber, I cut down my payot, I threw away the hat. I said to my mother: “Ima, I do not pray anymore, I will behave different.” And I said to my brother, “From now on, I am not asking for shelter to save me. They beat me up, I beat them back. The more they beat me, the more wild I get and the more stronger I get.”

Joshua Kaufman, The Volunteer 2018 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 26 ½ × 26 ½ in Museum Purchase 44

You never knew what is the next step, what is waiting for you. Authorities told you to take what you can into your hand and stand in front of where you live. And I was standing there like a horse—nobody talks to you. After two days, they marched us, they said to a ghetto. I was happy. I wanted to move from that street in front of our home. I did not know what a ghetto is. Ghetto had a gate and it was closed. When we went to the rail station, I was very happy. I said: “We are improving!” I looked forward only for happiness. When we arrived to Auschwitz, Mengele was standing there with a stick, pointing, “You go there and you go here.” I did not know what

Joshua Kaufman, The Volunteer 2018 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 26 ½ × 26 ½ in Museum Purchase 44

was here, what was there. But I knew one thing—they said my brother and my mother to go there. And for me they said go here. I wanted to go with them. Wherever they go, I go. And the [Nazis] beat me up two or three times, but I always went back. Then they brought a dog. The dog jumped on me, threw me to the ground, and I said: “Joshua, don’t be smart, you cannot fight them.” They said, “Go here” and I went here, I did not go with [my mother and brother]. If I did go with them, I would go out the chimney as smoke the same day, like they did. I was tall, athletic. They wanted me to work, and decided this guy is not for the crematorium. I did not decide. I know that I have to survive. This was in my mind. They used to ask for volunteers. And I was the first all the time in the barrack to say: “I am volunteering.” For everything. This was a very dangerous volunteering. One day, with all my volunteering, I volunteered for the gas chamber. What my job was, you have to separate the people who died from the gas. I became an animal. You fight for your life. I was in a death march from Birkenau to Dachau, 1,000 kilometers. I volunteered, of course. They offered three days food in advance. We were liberated by American soldiers. And then I promised myself, that one day, if I am alive, I will go to America, whenever I see an American soldier, I always will kiss his feet. But I never did it. Can you imagine, here in Los Angeles? I never did it.

Joshua Kaufman, The Volunteer 2018 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 26 ½ × 26 ½ in Museum Purchase 44

My name is Roman Kent. At birth, it was Roman Kniker. I was born in Łódź, Poland, April 18, 1929. And so were all of my other siblings—my sisters, Dasza and Renia, and my younger brother, Leon. At the end of ’39, the order was given that everybody has to go to the ghetto. We didn’t think about future in the ghetto, and even less so later on in concentration camps. You think from day to day, from hour to hour, from minute to minute. We were in the Łódź ghetto ’til the fall of 1944, when they liquidated it. The next thing what I remember is that we were in the cattle car. We were together— the five of us, my two sisters, my mother, my brother, and myself. Really this is one of the times—maybe the only time—that I really lost completely control of my movements, of my ability to think. And this is a time when they separated us—my brother and myself from my sisters and my mother. And this is really the last time that we have seen them, until after the war, where we met my two sisters. You know, a lot is being said about studying the Holocaust, but I don’t think that anyone, regardless how many degrees he will have, how many books he will study, can ever comprehend or understand one hour in Auschwitz-Birkenau. There’s no way to convey for the future the pain, the agony, the tragedy which was happening there. How long I was there, I don’t know. Days didn’t count.

Roman Kent 2018 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 35 × 25 in The Kent Family, NYC 48

My brother and myself decided that we better see what we can do to get out from the camp. And every now and then, we noticed that they have asked, “Who is a tailor? Who is a shoemaker?” And we have seen some people came up and say, “We are this.” And we found out that some of them are really not what they asked for. So we decided that the next time [they]’re going to ask for somebody, we will volunteer. And the next time they asked for some people that are experts in certain fields, we raised our hands, and this is how we left Birkenau.

Roman Kent 2018 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 35 × 25 in The Kent Family, NYC 48

We were in Flossenbürg, really, until April of ’45. And again, in Flossenbürg, it was basically for annihilation. So that you had a similar situation like in Auschwitz, that you could die for nothing. So, you had to use sometimes luck, or ingenuity to do things. You took chances. Whenever I worked in the kitchen, I would tie my long johns. And then whenever I could, I would put there a few potatoes or carrots. And, of course, we had to go through the Germans at the guard house. I remember when another person worked with me and he took so much that his pants were bulging. I knew that he’s got to go through the guard house. I told him, “Look, you’re taking too much. You will have problem getting through the guard house.” And he told me, “Look, you do what you want, and I’ll do what I want.’”And this day, I did not take anything. I wanted to be completely clean, because I was afraid that if he is caught, I’ll be caught too. So, at least if I don’t have anything, whatever punishment they will give me, it wouldn’t be bad. And sure enough, we went through. He got caught. He got killed. And that’s the way it was. So you had to take chances. When people ask, how do you survive— there’s no question that luck was maybe the most important part as to how you survive. I would say, however, that in addition to the luck, it did help sometimes to have some ingenuity. It helped. But this by itself would not suffice.

Roman Kent 2018 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 35 × 25 in The Kent Family, NYC 48

My present name is Raya Kovensky, my maiden name was Wachotinski. When we came over to the U.S., within five years my father changed it to Watkin. I was born on January 30, 1930, in Danzig, which at that time was a free state between Germany and Poland. My parents were born in Kiev in Imperial Russia. My older sister was born there as well. I believe it was at the time of the Bolshevik Revolution when my father felt it was time to get out of there. He laid the groundwork for my mother carrying my baby sister to travel from village to village towards the West, to get to Danzig. At that time Jews were very well in Danzig. My father was in the lumber business. I would say it started changing, maybe even before, but for me in 1937. I do remember the Nazis in the streets, I do remember the children being taught very, very early on to hate Jews. When I went home from school I would always see if I can seek out an older adult so that I could walk with that person, knowing that these children won’t harm me if I am with an older adult. You couldn’t go to the park. You couldn’t go to the theater. You couldn’t go to public school. We had a lovely synagogue that was, of course, destroyed during the Kristallnacht. My father had the same foresight that he had with Russia, I mean the Bolshevik Revolution there, and he felt the same thing was happening. I think my father realized that whatever plans he started making had to be finished and we had to get out before it was too late. Fortunately for all of us. Otherwise, I couldn’t be here talking to you right now.

Raya Kovensky, Witness to Kristallnacht 2018 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 40 × 27 ½ in Heiskell Family Collection 52

We did not leave until June of 1939. I think I was very excited because I realized that I was going to America. The Goldene Medina, which means the land of gold. Gold in the streets and all that, which, you know . . . as a child, I guess you believe anything. I remember the Statue of Liberty being gold

Raya Kovensky, Witness to Kristallnacht 2018 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 40 × 27 ½ in Heiskell Family Collection 52

in color, which of course, it is not. But coming at the time that the sun was setting . . . and it just turned golden. I remember she was so beautiful to look at it. It’s a wonderful thing to reach American shores and to see this wonderful, wonderful statue. We had my aunt greet us in New York, she came and then we took the train to Chicago. I don’t think there is a person alive who does not recall what exactly they did on December 7, 1941. I remember very vividly saying to myself, “Oh my god, we’re at war. We just left Germany two years prior to escape the madness there. How are we going to be involved? How horrible.” I was devastated that this could happen to us here in America now.

Raya Kovensky, Witness to Kristallnacht 2018 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 40 × 27 ½ in Heiskell Family Collection 52

My name is Edward Mosberg. I was born January 6, 1926 in Krakow, Poland. I had two sisters, one older, one younger. My parents had a department store. We had a happy family. When the war started, I went with my father towards the east. Away from the Germans. We went to Lwów first; there were a lot of people running away. We were hiding in the haystacks in the field near Stanislawów. Then my mother sent somebody to pick me up and bring me back to Krakow. In 1941, they formed a ghetto. I was happy that I was with my family, my aunt, my grandparents, my sisters, my mother. All in one apartment. And then everything broke. I remember to remain in the ghetto, you needed to get a stamp, so I went to find one. The Gestapo look at me and give me a stamp. I took my mother’s ID, the Gestapo again looked at me and gave me the stamp. Then I got my aunt’s ID. The Gestapo head grabbed me by my neck and pushed me against the wall. At one point the Jewish police came in and took me to the jail. I knew some of them, the Jewish police. They helped me and in the end I ran away. The next day, whoever did not have an ID was taken to Belzec, to be murdered there. At the end of 1942, I went to work in Wieliczka. On March 13, 1943 they told us that we had to take whatever we had and bring it to the street. At that time I recognized Amon Goeth; that was the first time I saw him. Running around like maniac, with a gun, shooting, beating people. I was working in the office at Plaszow at that time, but I used to go back to the ghetto after work.

Edward Mosberg, Survivor of Plaszow and Mauthausen 2019 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 22 × 30 in Collection of the Artist 56

Now we all got to Plaszow. I saw Amon Goeth every day. I saw him do horrible things. I saw him after the war too. I went to the trial. And I went to jail to see him. I was still afraid of him. In May 1944, they took my mother from Plaszow to Auschwitz. I remember I went

Edward Mosberg, Survivor of Plaszow and Mauthausen 2019 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 22 × 30 in Collection of the Artist 56

into the barrack, I lay down and I cried the whole night. But I had to go to work. So I went to work. Then in August, they rounded up people in the assembly place and there was a long row of people. Six thousand women. My sister was there. I could not get to them. If I interfered, maybe they could have survived. I feel guilty for so many years because of my failure to save them. The next day, or two days later, I went to Mauthausen. I ended up in a concentration camp at Linz. One day I got caught by four men, and they were beating me. I will never forget it, I feel it till this day how they are beating me. At that point somebody passed by, a prisoner policeman. He was a Polish guy. He opened the door just as they wanted to drown me in a barrel of water. And he pulled me out from there. There was blood all over me. Back in the barrack I heard one of the guys say: “He is dying.” And the next day I had to go to work. I survived. I had tuberculosis of bones and lungs. I didn’t have a bar mitzvah because the war started. But I had it here in the United States in 1993. My grandson, Barry, was born on my birthday, so we had it together, the bar mitzvah. Now I like to go [to Kracow] because whenever I walk, I remember. Here I was going with my father, here was I with my mother, playing here with my sisters. It’s painful, but I remember.

Edward Mosberg, Survivor of Plaszow and Mauthausen 2019 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 22 × 30 in Collection of the Artist 56

My name is Hanna Pankowsky. My maiden name is Davidson. I was born in Łódź, Poland on September, 22, 1928. My mother’s name was Sofia Davidson. My father’s Jewish name was Zellman. But during our years in Russia, they changed it to Simon Davidson. I have one brother; his name was Kazik. I have very loving parents. It was a very happy childhood. Very happy memories of that time. We knew that it’s inevitable the Nazis were coming. I remember like today, I was ready to go to school, it was September 1st 1939, and the radio said “Germany invaded Poland.” My father and my brother grab the backpack they have ready and they say, “We’re leaving, we have to leave right now.” I can see them, my father and brother, disappear around the corner and I start cry ing and wanted to run behind them. Our housekeeper said “Don’t cry, Germans don’t like crying girls.” From then on, it was agony and fear. I remember it was almost winter already. We saw the beautiful synagogue across the street burning. To our horror, we saw a bunch of Jews throwing buckets of gasoline and behind them was SS soldiers with machine guns. We heard the screaming of the people locked inside. We were children, we were petrified that this would happen to us. There was fear, panic, terror. No way to describe this nightmare. My mother did such a beautiful, strong painting of this, it’s the cover of my book.

Hanna Davidson Pankowsky, East of the Storm 2018 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 35 × 25 in Courtesy of Gallery Henoch 60

The rumor started the ghetto was going to be formed and my mother said “I’m going to escape.” I don’t know how she arranged it, but she came one day and said, “Put two dresses on, and a coat and two pairs of socks. We’re leaving.” And she wouldn’t tell me where we’re leaving. And I ask if I can take my doll with me and she said, “No, you cannot take anything. Run very fast to your grandmother, say goodbye to her.” I did. Then I say, “Don’t worry gram, I will be back soon.” And she said, “No, I never see you again.” And I didn’t.

Hanna Davidson Pankowsky, East of the Storm 2018 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 35 × 25 in Courtesy of Gallery Henoch 60

My mom obtained Polish papers that we are this man, wife, and daughter and we’re going to visit family. It was dark. There was a checkpoint when driving. They stop the car and search the car and took the man and my mother and me to separate room. I knew that if I show fear and if I cry, this German woman who was searching me will find something that’s not right and this will be the end of us. So I knew not to cry, to smile, be polite—and she let me go. My mother and I were left in the forest and we had to cross the river. The Germans knew the sound of trying to escape. They wanted to kill everybody. So they had searching dogs and we heard the dogs approaching and my mother threw me in the snow and covered me with the snow and herself too. Somehow, the dogs lost the scent of us. When we reached the destination, a woman opened the door. She just stood there and couldn’t believe it. She said, “Do I have a surprise for you!” And we come inside and here comes my brother. And needless to say, that was a miracle—my brother survived. I have to say, leaving Poland was a lifesaving decision because when we came back, the doorman of our apartment house told my mother that half an hour after we left, the Gestapo came to arrest her because she was an artist. At that time, Germans tried eliminate all the scholars, scientists, and Jewish writers and artists. If we had stayed 30 minute more, I wouldn’t be here. After the war when we arrived in Dallas we indeed could get in touch with my father. There is just no word you can describe when you think that someone dear to you is dead—and here, he’s alive and healthy. So that’s an unbelievable joy.

Hanna Davidson Pankowsky, East of the Storm 2018 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 35 × 25 in Courtesy of Gallery Henoch 60

My name is Elsa Ross. My maiden name was Szpidbaum. I was born on November 2, 1936, in Warsaw, Poland. I have been told that my grandfather on my father’s side was a rabbi, but he later became a businessman. He had a candy and chocolate factory. Unfortunately, I myself cannot remember, but I have been told we used to all get together at their house on Fridays. My father manufactured candy wrappers for my grandfather’s factory. I remember playing with the candy wrappers. I think I must have been happy. The street where I lived, Panska, was not in the ghetto, but I am not sure about that. I think we later moved into the ghetto. I do have memories, and these are my own memories, of hiding under furs, in my grandfather’s factory or somewhere near there. Hiding under furs, playing under furs, it is a very vague memory. It is not a frightening memory at all. But that’s all I remember. In the ghetto, I remember the quarters were very cramped. I remember being told not to sneeze or make too much noise because someone might hear me. I also have a memory of my mother sitting by a sewing machine crying. I remember voices telling me to run. To run out of the ghetto. It was a street scene, I remember, at night, to run toward a truck that was waiting for me. And to jump into it. At the time I was separated from my parents I was told never to tell anyone that I was Jewish.

Elsa Ross, Hidden Child 2016 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 30 × 20 in Private Collection 64

I went into an apartment. These were people who taught me some Catholic prayers. In order to learn the prayers, I might have stayed for more than one day. Then I went to an orphanage, outside of Warsaw. I remember a large room where a lot of us slept, all together. I might have been four years old. I remember being ill-at-ease. I remember running out of the orphanage when there was an air raid, toward a shelter, and I was not running fast enough because they were telling me to run faster. And I remember an explosion very close by.

Elsa Ross, Hidden Child 2016 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 30 × 20 in Private Collection 64

A friend of a friend of my mother used to come visit me every Sunday, at the orphanage. Her name was Halina Liszecka. I looked forward to her visits very much. I never asked about my parents. I just remember the highlight of the day was standing in line to get a square piece of bread dipped in cod liver oil. It tasted wonderful, a delicacy for us. I think I remember saying prayers, but I do not remember when we said them. I felt very Catholic. My new, Polish, Catholic name was Elzunia Zalewska. I think this Catholicism that was instilled in me at the time has had a tremendous impact on my whole life. I still like Catholic churches, the ritual of the Catholic mass. I can’t remember anyone saying “Wow the war is over, let us celebrate,” nothing like that. But I do remember my aunt coming to get me. I thought she was my mother. She reminded me of my mother. And then when she told me she wasn’t my mother, I was terribly upset. I must have longed for my parents. She told me my mother was no longer alive. I was terribly disappointed. I cried. She took me to Krakow, I had to share the room with her son. I can’t remember being that much happier, but I definitely remember a great difference. The difference was freedom. Being able to go out in the street and talk to people. I can’t remember when exactly my other aunt came to take me away from aunt Irene, her name was Anna, my father’s twin sister. She had lost her child in a concentration camp. And she said to aunt Irene: “Your son survived, my son didn’t, so I’m going to take her.” We left Poland. I seem to be one of those people who doesn’t ask enough questions, I might have always been like that. And maybe it started early on. This business of not asking questions. And it has continued.

Elsa Ross, Hidden Child 2016 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 30 × 20 in Private Collection 64

My name is Eva Geiringer Schloss. I was born May 11,1929, in Vienna, Austria. I had a brother Heinz; we got on extremely well. We had a big house with a big garden. We were a real very happy family. In 1939, the war started. In February 1940, we went to Amsterdam. My father hired a furnished flat. One of the families who moved in there were the Frank family. Anne was exactly my age. (After the war, Otto Frank became a very good friend and married my mother). My brother was very much afraid of dying. We went to my father and said, “We are very frightened of dying.” And my father said, “Well you will never die because whatever you do in your life—every movement, everything you say—it will stay. And everything you say will go into your children, and so you are just part of a chain.” He hoped the chain would not be broken. So we had hope. As long as there is life, there is hope. The Germans invaded Holland in May 1940. My father made all the arrangements for us to go into hiding. My father was so clever; I thought it was amazing how he thought about everything. My father said, “Forget who you really are, you have to learn now, you are this and this, date of birth, and your name, and your mother this and this name. You are just this.” My 15th birthday, there was a loud knock on the door. There were the SS with Dutch and German police. We went to the Gestapo headquarters and we were petrified. We knew this is our end, really.

Eva Geiringer Schloss 2019 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 22 × 33 in Private Collection 68

May ’44 we went to Westerbork. After a few days, they told us we were going to Auschwitz. The first orders were men and women to separate. That was the last time I saw Heinz. He helps me down the train and then we cuddled and hugged. And my father embraced me too. And he said, “God will protect you.”

Eva Geiringer Schloss 2019 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 22 × 33 in Private Collection 68

We had to leave everything we carried there. It was May, it was warm, a friend had sent a long coat and a hat. And this was one thing which saved my life, because I looked older. One day, the SS came, and said to me, “Kanada,” a work kommando where you worked to sort out the clothes, the food, and whatever the transports brought. In Kanada, we could eat the whole day. Bits of chocolate, bit of cheese, pieces of bread. Whatever we found, we ate. After about six weeks they didn’t need so many people and we were dismissed. And then we had to do terrible work. Food was very important to us. My mother was quite clever. There was a kitchen where they cooked the soup. And the Poles got more food than us, and they threw away their bad cabbage and the tops of carrots and so on. We took that. And we went back to the barracks and said “We have parsley to sell.” And so we swapped that for a bit of bread, a bit of soap and things like that. One morning we woke up and there were no Germans. I saw a huge figure standing, all covered in snow and fur. I thought it was a bear and then I went a bit closer and I saw the first Russian soldier who had entered the camp. We went to where the Russian [liberators] had just left. We saw there a dead horse lying on the frozen ground. And a Polish woman said, “I can make a wonderful horse stew out of that.” I went and got this big knife. We cut out a funny round thing and when we cut it, saw that it was a womb and it was a little horse in it. And the Russians had choked it because it was pregnant and they couldn’t take it along. So we still cut a bit of it and made a stew and ate it. When I think about that—that I did this—I just think that can’t be true.

Eva Geiringer Schloss 2019 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 22 × 33 in Private Collection 68

After having gone through this nightmare, I think I can cope with life. I think I came out stronger than I was before.

Eva Geiringer Schloss 2019 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 22 × 33 in Private Collection 68

After having gone through this nightmare, I think I can cope with life. I think I came out stronger than I was before.

Bearing Witness, Survivors of Auschwitz 2017–2019 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 210 × 96 in Courtesy of the Artist 72

My name is Gloria Ungar. I was born September 9, 1930 in Krosno, Poland. At that time, my name was Gitta Nagel. When I came to the United States and I started school, my friends decided that I have to change my name to Gloria. So I remained Gloria. I had three brothers, but only one survived. His name is Jack Nagel. And he lives right here in Los Angeles. My other brothers did not survive. I wanted to live very much. I always wanted to survive. I don’t know. I guess when you are young, you are hopeful, and you don’t want to give up. And you always hope that things will work out. I really don’t know how I survived. Maybe it’s because I was young and I was hopeful. And when you are young, you always think that—you want to hold on. I even remember when we were on our way to Auschwitz and we knew for sure that we can’t survive. I kept on thinking to myself— it’s funny that you should remember these things. I mean, you know, it was 50 years ago. That I should remember—I was thinking, well, maybe somebody will have pity on me, or maybe something will happen that I will be not sent to the gas chamber. I remember coming to Auschwitz. Everything is like in a daze. The air was foul. I never saw anything like it in my life. A woman came to my father and she says to him, “You give me your child. You give me your daughter.” I don’t remember who she was, and I never saw her again. And she grabbed me from my father’s hand, and she took me over to the women’s side. It was night and Mengele was there. And he was just—he didn’t ask you how old you are. He just said right, left, right, left, right, left. And evidently, he didn’t see that I was so young, so he pushed me to the right side and that’s how I didn’t go to the gas chambers.

Gloria Ungar Bearing Witness, Survivors of Auschwitz (detail) 76

They wanted to empty Auschwitz; they were sending us from one place to the other. On our last trip in the train, we travelled for maybe for two weeks in the trains without water, without food. Occasionally they

Gloria Ungar Bearing Witness, Survivors of Auschwitz (detail) 76

would stop the train and bring some water or distribute some food. I just kept on telling myself, “Remember who you are,” because I just felt like I’m losing my mind. I just kept on telling myself, “Remember, your name is Gitta Nagel. You were born September 9, 1930. Don’t forget who you are. Just keep on—keep on remembering that,” because after a while you just even don’t feel like a human being anymore. TWe were in a forest. And they stopped the trains to unload the dead people, just to shove them off. And they shoved off the dead ones. I was so skeletal. And they shoved me off, too. I just fought like a tiger to get back on the train, you know? I just scrambled with all my energy to get back on the train, because I knew if I’m left behind there, I’ll be lying dead like— just like all the others there. And I made it up on the train. I think two days later, we arrived to Denmark. They opened up the doors, and we are in Denmark. It seems that it was already the end of the war. They opened up the trains. There were Danish people there with baskets of foods. And they opened up, and they said, “You are free. You are free.” I was just sitting in the train. I remember, I was just sitting—me and a few other people—like in a daze. And thinking to myself, “So it’s over. Well, what does it matter? I’m left alone in this world.”

Gloria Ungar Bearing Witness, Survivors of Auschwitz (detail) 76

My name is Joseph Aleksander, my Jewish name was Leib, they called me Lolek in Polish. I was born August 3, 1923 in Warsaw, Poland. When I was a child, times were not that great most of the time. It was during the Depression. Things were very hard for most everybody. My mother always had people at home that were worse off than we were. I remember many times when we didn’t have food, other relatives took care of us. People would help each other. The first signs of trouble was that antisemitism in Poland really grew. There was a boycott of anything that’s Jewish. So business really got bad. And the attacks of antisemitism were very bad. So much that actually when the Germans started attacking, some Jews thought maybe it’ll be for the better. It couldn’t be much for the worst. Little did we know. The Germans came to recruit people for work in a labor camp. I had my diploma from school as a machinist and they took me. It was a relief because at least we had a couple meals a day. The name of this camp was Luftwaffe Mokotow. One of the men ran away from camp. He came back about six weeks later, smuggled himself back into the camp. He started telling us stories that they picked him up in the ghetto, and they took him to Treblinka. And he told us that they were exterminating Jews in Treblinka—whole trainloads full. They used to strip them naked. And they drove them into gas chambers. People wanted to beat him up. They thought he was crazy, that he’s trying to stir up trouble. Nobody could believe about it.

Joseph Aleksandar Bearing Witness, Survivors of Auschwitz (detail) 80

They took us directly to a railroad station, Gdanska, where they transferred people to go to concentration camps. They drove us into the railroad cars, you know, cattle cars. I think we went like two days and two nights. And I lost consciousness. Lot of people never came out of those wagons. They were dead. I was young and strong. I think that’s why I survived. They unloaded us, Lublin Majdanek. Majdanek was like a death camp,

Joseph Aleksandar Bearing Witness, Survivors of Auschwitz (detail) 80

you know. Very few people survived. It was mainly beatings and work in the sand and the gravel and digging. Then they took us to Auschwitz. They made us strip completely naked and hold our hands to show that we have all our fingers. I was athletic. And I was young. So I was sent to go to a labor camp out of Auschwitz, which was called Buna. But unfortunately, that didn’t last. Because an incident happened that almost, you know, ended my life there. They kicked me out. And they sent me to what they called the Toten Kommando, the Death Kommando. And we had to work all day in the hot sun with very little food, you know. And when you got too weak, they sent you to the crematorium. So I felt the life ebbing out of me, that I would not survive. You, you almost did everything you could to survive. Sometimes it was the difference whether you stood in a windy place or went into a place that wasn’t windy, you know. It was that much difference when you’re weak and tired and hungry, and all that. So I took courage. The head of the whole camp was a big German. I walked up to him. I told him the whole story. I said, at least, if I work at my profession, I will serve some purpose for Germany. He took down my number, which is 127915. They sent me out to a technical Kommando. So that’s what saved my life. Because I spoke up, because I had the courage to walk up to him.

Joseph Aleksandar Bearing Witness, Survivors of Auschwitz (detail) 80

My name is Adolf Deutsch. In Yiddish they used to call me Amram. I was born on August 8, 1925, in Sighet. It is a city in Transylvania. Today it is in Romania. I had 10 siblings. My father Jacob was a Torah scholar, but he also had a store. My mother Mindel helped with the store, so that he could study more. We were very poor, often hungry. We used to go to my grandparent’s house to find some food. We stole apples from trees. We used to cry ourselves to sleep. That’s how hungry we used to be. There was no way we can get any help. These were tough times. Then, as I grew up a little bit, I tried to go to people’s houses. I used to go and cut people’s hair to earn a few pennies. I think the hardships that I had while I was a kid helped me to survive. Because those boys that came from the better homes, they were used to good food, clean homes, they couldn’t make it in the camps. The first sign of trouble I remember when I was away from home. I was sent away to yeshiva. I was 15. And the school was suddenly closed and we students were sent home. I helped out in the central bathhouse, that is what I did until we gathered to go to the ghetto. Until then, we had freedom to go around the streets, but we did have to wear a star to let everybody know who we are. We didn’t know what the word ghetto means. People were gathered to go to the ghetto, but we, boys, were sent to collect hay for the military horses. Germans were pulling their cannons by horses, by mules. We were returned to the ghetto three days before deportation.

Amrom Deutsch Bearing Witness, Survivors of Auschwitz (detail) 84

We were going on the train, I remember, it was between five and six days. When we arrived in Auschwitz, we see the whole camp was lit up from every side. And dogs barking, and soldiers, the SS. They took the younger ones on one side, and the older ones on another side, with mothers and kids. But we didn’t know, the first couple of days, we didn’t know what was going on, because we were selected to go to labor.

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I have a number on my hand. 83146. I was sent to a camp about 10 kilometers from Birkenau. It was called Buna. I worked as a locksmith. After about six months, Americans started to bomb the camp, because there were a lot of factories. They were trying to get to the factories. Germans started to evacuate us, that’s when the real trouble started. People were freezing to death. It was 20, 30 below zero, so you can imagine how cold it was. Today, you would probably put on underwear and a jacket, and undershirts, and a winter coat. We only had pajamas. We marched, the whole camp marched away. And if someone sat down, they said they don’t want to walk no more, they just give him a bullet, that’s all. We arrived to Bergen-Belsen. There was only a few thousand people left. While we were in Bergen-Belsen, we didn’t do nothing. There was no work. And they just kept us there with no food. We were waiting. People were full of lice. People had nothing to eat, nothing to drink. Typhoid. Then, they decided to remove some of the people who were still in a condition that they could be moved. We were put again on a train, and we were moved to a place called Sachsenhausen. It looked like they didn’t know what to do with the dying people anymore, because eventually they brought us back to Bergen-Belsen. I laid down between the dead people. And I stayed there two and a half days between the dead people. That was the last two and a half days before we were liberated by the English. That’s how I survived.

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My name is Renée Firestone. When I was brought to Auschwitz 50 years ago, my name was Renée Weinfeld. I was born April 13, 1924, in the eastern part of Czechoslovakia— Užhorod—now belongs to Ukraine. It was a lovely town. I come from a very loving middle-class Jewish family. My father was a businessman, and he had a textile business and a tailor shop. My mother was a businesswoman before she was married, then became a housewife. I have a brother who is four years older than myself. And I had a sister who was five years younger than myself. Jews were sort of slowly, systematically reduced to second class citizens. Deportations began in 1944. We were herded into cattle cars in my hometown. My brother was no longer with us. He was in a Hungarian forced labor camp. But my parents and my sister and I were in a cattle car. The journey to Auschwitz was horrifying. I very vividly remember this old woman sitting on the edge of the cattle car who ripped open her coat lining and reached in and removed a little gold locket and started to cry bitterly. And I, being young and still very optimistic and romantic, I was sort of fantasizing that maybe that’s her wedding picture in the locket, or maybe her family, her grandchildren, whom she left behind. Then she closed this locket and, through the cracks of the cattle car, handed it to the Nazis.

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When I jumped off that cattle car and looked around, I knew right away that we’re doomed. I turned back to the cattle car for my mom and dad . . . they were gone. I asked this kapo [guard], “When are we going to be reunited with our parents?” She pointed to one of the chimneys of the crematoria and she said, “Do you see this chimney? There go your parents, and, when you go through the chimneys, you’ll be reunited.”

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We were caught in this human tide and being pushed towards the camp. I found myself standing in front of this Nazi officer, a young man, very handsome with a smiling face. He had a leather whip, pointing people to the right and to the left. I turned back and saw my sister being shaved. I was afraid that she was going to pass through and I’m going to lose her, so I just turned around and walked away. One of these kapos came after me and hit me on my back. She kept saying that I’m lucky I wasn’t shot. So that was my first lucky day, I guess, to survive. Later, I was selected from my camp, going into another camp. It was then that I was separated from my sister, Clara. We arranged to meet at the wires every morning at a certain place so that we can tell each other that we are still alive. And on Yom Kippur, in 1944, my sister didn’t show. I knew that something happened to her. After the war, I found out that she was selected out to be killed that day. That’s when the second miracle happened. The night before, I was burning up with fever. I became very ill. There was a mother by the name of Farkosh. She stole somewhere a blanket, and she wrapped me in this blanket, and she dragged me out for zahlappell [roll call]. Would she have not done it, I would have been finished that morning. And then I went on this death march, about 60 kilometers, where we were again put into cattle cars. My prisoner friends surrounded me and hugged me for body warmth.

Renee Firestone Bearing Witness, Survivors of Auschwitz (detail) 88

I arrived to Liebau camp, and we were assigned to work at a Krupp factory. A Russian officer rode in. He looked at us, and yelled, “You’re Jewish?” We didn’t know whether we should say yes or no. This officer jumped off the horse, came over, and started to cry and hugged and kissed us. He came back a few days later, and he told us that we can now leave. And there we were, on our own, realizing that now we have to re-enter that world that didn’t want us.

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My name is Henry Oster. I was born on November 5, 1928, in Cologne, Germany, to Hans Isadore Oster, the Vice President of a chain of stores, and Lisbeth Oster, a housewife. The first recollection that I had as to antisemitism affecting my life was the very first day I had to go to school in 1934. Leaving the school, we were greeted with stones and rocks and unpleasant comments. In 1938, it became totally impossible to have any kind of a normal life. Of course, for a 10-year-old that was puzzling. We were forced to vacate the apartment house we lived in following Kristallnacht, on the 9th of November. We could hear the shattering of glass, looting, yelling. And if you had gone on the street, we could’ve actually seen my synagogue burning. After 1939, it became even more incredible to live in Germany. Cologne was the first city to have daylight and nighttime bombing. In January 1941, we were told that deportations will take place. They shoved us on a train, and with the travel of about two days we arrive someplace and discovered that there was nobody there who spoke German. We had arrived in Łódź. In the Łódź ghetto we were shoved into a small room with 14 other people. My father was forced to reinforce the fence that surrounded the ghetto. He died of starvation. There was no burial. When you see somebody simply wither away, you think in a very short time thereafter you have the same fate.

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In August 1943, we were shoved into cattle cars, destination unknown. Everybody was deathly afraid. The doors were ripped open. We were yanked out, pushed out, beaten up. It was the ultimate in panic. I was in Auschwitz II-Birkenau. After two months I was transported to the Auschwitz I camp. It was only [later], that I found out through historical research that in all

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the years till 1945, only two transports of juveniles ever left Birkenau for something that wasn’t extermination—Transport 165 before I went and Transport 131 that I was in. My responsibility in Auschwitz was to propagate horses. To help a horse to mate is not your everyday kick in the pants activity. It’s dangerous. I got repeatedly cut from the horse tail because it is as sharp as blades. The Germans thought it was funny to have this little Jew get kicked around by the horse trying to help him mate. That horse received better food than we did and we had access to the food. That allowed you to survive. The one time I almost came to a bitter end. This horse decided to have its baby. Of course, I knelt down to assist it. I hear whistles and all kinds of commotion because I’m not there for the head count. All I could see, Germans with guns drawn, searching for me and the horse. I found a stick. And I raised my cap. And sure enough, shots rang out. But I yelled in German, “This horse is giving birth.” You know, I’m doing what I’m supposed to do. I was able to explain it. They saw the foal half out of its mother. So that kind of saved my life. It was wintertime and we marched out of the camp under heavy guard. Whoever falls behind and creates distance between the column and yourself will be shot. There was a concern that you had not to end at the end of the column. You marched rapidly. And when we finally did get out, they said “Welcome to Buchenwald.” I was back in Germany—one incredible round trip. And for reasons we did not know, we heard rumblings. Things got kind of quiet. And for 10 or 11 days, no food no nothing. We all had a great deal of hope.

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One day we heard some shots and somebody said there was a tank coming through the building with a Star of David on it. We were liberated on April 11, 1945, by Patton’s Third Army.

Henry Oster Bearing Witness, Survivors of Auschwitz (detail) 92

One day we heard some shots and somebody said there was a tank coming through the building with a Star of David on it. We were liberated on April 11, 1945, by Patton’s Third Army.

I am Ella Mandel, born Joskowitz, December 2, 1926, from Zdusnka Wola, Poland. I was 13 years old in September 1939 when the Germans came to Poland. I lived with my parents, Hela and Berak and my two sisters, Zosia and Lola. In 1939, September, the Germans came into town and that was havoc. They closed us off the first day in a ghetto. We would get together and continue as much as we could our education. Food was limited. They came one day and they chased us out, all of us, to the cemetery. They took away my little sister Lola in the cemetery. She was maybe 9 years old and they killed her right there. They killed the children and the old people. Whoever was left went to the Lódz Ghetto. My father died in the ghetto. That was 1942. In August 1944, they took us to Auschwitz. It was my mother, my sister Zosia and I. We were holding on to my mother because we did not want to be separated. When the selection came they took my mother away. It was the last [time] that I saw my mother. Then, we made a pact, my sister and I, not to hold [on] to each other. Because we realized that by holding on to my mother we got separated. I didn’t believe that I’m never going to see my mother. I didn’t see her die. I just saw her being taken away from me. And if you are young, no matter how bad the situation, you always hope. Maybe tomorrow, something will happen. I had this nature of believing in people. I had this nature of thinking tomorrow will be a better day. I had this nature of thinking people are basically good. People need people. I had this need to go on. We were just a few days in Auschwitz and we were selected to go to a labor camp in Hamburg, Germany, where we worked digging ditches. We were there until February 1945.

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In February 1945, they made us walk to Bergen-Belsen. My sister and I, pushing each other and holding on to each other,

Ella Mandel Bearing Witness, Survivors of Auschwitz (detail) 96

In February 1945, they made us walk to Bergen-Belsen. My sister and I, pushing each other and holding on to each other,

we made it to Bergen-Belsen. I was very sick, I had lost my hearing. My lucky break was that one of my friends was a nurse. She claimed she was a nurse so they put her in charge of this drug store. She would steal whatever there was, there wasn’t much. She probably brought me aspirin. Or maybe occasionally there was some antibiotic. This is probably why I survived. We are very close, we are like sisters because of that. She is still my best friend. We were liberated April 15. They treated me and I got well. The only thing, I didn’t have my sister since I had typhus and it’s contagious. And I remember laying in bed and writing her name on the wall over and over and over again. I had to get well, I had to find her. I got well probably two weeks later, I just wanted to find my sister and I did because she was waiting outside to see me. But she was sick. The [Red Cross] came and said they want to take her to a hospital and I absolutely refused because being separated means, that’s it, I’m never going to see her again. So every time the car was coming, I would hide my sister. Everybody talked to me, saying “What are you doing, she’s dying! You’ve got to let her go to a hospital.” She had tuberculosis. They promised me I can visit her every weekend. But she was fading. She died two months later. That was probably the hardest part for me, to lose my sister. Maybe had I let her go sooner and seek professional medical help, maybe she would have survived. But my fear of being separated was so strong that I was hiding her for weeks, I wouldn’t let her go. So I will blame myself for the rest of my life. I was left all alone. But [now] I have a family and a continuation and that’s what makes me go on.

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My name is Morris Price. My name at birth was Moishe Prajs. My Polish name was Moniek. I was born in Wolbrom, Poland, in 1927, on April 1st. My father’s name was Manela Prajs, a businessman. My mother’s name was Itka Prajs, born Kuhl. I had three brothers and three sisters. Wolbrum was a small town. It was a large Jewish population and I had a good time over there. In the summer there was a lake. We used to go swimming. We used to have a horse. I used to ride the horse. It was lots of fun. When the war broke out, everything changed. I could not go to school anymore, because being Jewish, couldn’t go to public school. I remember planes and bombs. I remember the German army marching in. And you were just telling yourself that it’s got to improve. I later on found out that there’s no limit to the good, and there’s no limit to the bad. But at that time, we were always hoping things are going to get better, because you said, “this is the worst.” This can’t get any worse, can’t get any worse. But it got worse. Then came March 14 [1943] and I was sent to Auschwitz-Birkenau. When I saw what is going on, I always thought in my mind I knew that the war has to be, probably would be over in about another five, six weeks. It was close to Passover, that by Passover the war’s going to be over. If my sisters, my brother if they find out I was sent to Auschwitz, so they probably later on know for sure that I’m not going to be alive. And I’m gonna surprise everybody. I’m gonna fight, and I’m gonna make it. I’m gonna be alive. I don’t care if I don’t eat for six weeks. I’m going to somehow manage to stay alive.

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One time I remember I was near the SS barracks and I was looking for some food. And I got caught. And I had to lay down on chairs. And they hit me with a stick. And the stick broke. And by the time they wanted to get another stick, I jumped up and ran

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away. But they didn’t chase me. Whatever they did, they let me go. They didn’t need any reason to hit you or to beat you or to do things like that. They didn’t need any reason. Well, the place that I worked later on was right in back of the crematorium. The thing that was going through our mind— nobody believed that—that we’d ever be alive. Because we didn’t think that—there’s no way they can leave—let us survive and to be able to tell these stories. So what we were hoping is when our time comes, maybe we’ll be strong enough to put up a little fight. One day when we were working, they were transporting a couple trucks of the sick people to the gas chambers, because they were–I don’t know how sick. They knew where they were going. And they were screaming. And I remembered this Pollack, he said to us, “There is no God. If there’s a God and he can’t hear these screams, that something must be—that there is no God.” The screams stayed with you for a long time. No human being should ever have to go through what I went through—no matter how much I tell, you still can’t tell it what it was. I want to say the human body is stronger than anything in the world. It’s stronger than iron. It’s stronger than steel. It can survive more than anything in the world. And you don’t think you can survive, but you can. That is why I always say, there’s no limit to the good.

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My name is Jack Lewin. I was born April 13, 1927 in Łódź, Poland. I picked this date for the interview, January 27, 1995, because today is my 50th anniversary of my liberation from Auschwitz. My father’s name was Hersch Lipman Levin. He was a house painter. My mother [Dinah Levin] was a housewife and a seamstress. I never had brothers or sisters. In one way, I was glad that I never had any because there would have been more victims. And then again, if they would have survived, I would have had somebody. This way, I had nobody. With my maternal grandparents, we lived the first few months in the ghetto. We had a garden in the backyard. I mean, every possible piece of soil was used up. We received some seeds from the Jewish committee in the [Lódz] ghetto so that we could plant. I have a beautiful, public garden out on Hollywood Boulevard because of that. Because the smell of the soil is still in me. I don’t know how long it took us to go to Birkenau, but we arrived there at dawn. When they opened the box cars, I thought I was in a circus. I managed to see where my mother was. And I saw Dr. Mengele sending my mother on the other side the selection, and all I saw was her walking away. That’s all. Nevertheless, I was so happy when they sent me to the good side. Can you imagine that? That’s why there are plenty of moments when I don’t think I was that lucky that I survived. Because if you have to carry a package like that with you, it wasn’t worth it.

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Apparently, the Germans got either a phone call or radio telling them to get the hell out of Auschwitz. They had these warehouses with food and all different kind of things. A ritual slaughterer from Łódź used to cook for us. He said, he needs some margarine. I went down to the warehouse to get marga rine. While I’m in the warehouse, I heard a noise out in the yard and German yelling. So I hid.

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And I’m sitting there for an hour. And as I walk out, an SS man walks right towards me. So I told him I have a sick brother and they told me to come down and get some sugar, some margarine. So he said to me, “Get the hell out of here.” And he took out his gun. I remembered from American movies, cowboys and bandits, that if you run away when they shoot after you, you go in a zig-zag. So I started to run like that. I nearly died from fright. And around 2:00 or 2:30 in the afternoon, we saw the first Russians. And that was the most beautiful sight in the world. I remember running down the stairs thinking, you better get a hold of yourself because you’re going to go crazy. Six years, and all of sudden, you’re free. In 1987, I was in Łódź. I got to talking with this guy. He said to me, “You know, I have something at home that would interest you. My grandfather was a history buff, and so am I. And he left me something—he died a long time ago—that he found near the train station in Łódź in the garbage. He found it in 1946. I think it’s got Hebrew letters. I think it’s from the Talmud.” I heard it. I started to shake. I said, “I’d love to see it.” He lays out a piece of parchment all ripped off from a Torah scroll. And he said to me, “You know what? To me, this has only a historical value. I think to you, it’s a lot more important . . . I’ll give it to you. Please, take it.” I brought this parchment home. I called up the Simon Wiesenthal Center—the archive . . . . And they verified it, that it is authentic. It is from a real parchment—not paper—from the Torah. And they accepted it. And it’s there under a glass. And it’s called “The Lewin Scrolls.” This is my tombstone left for generations.

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My name is William Harvey, I was born to be Vilmos Herskovits on 20 of May, 1924, in Berehovo, Czechoslovakia. I enjoyed growing up there. I was the last one of four girls and two boys. In 1938 or 1939, Hungary took over. And it was a difficult time. When the Hungarians came in, and they saw Jewish people on the street, they would beat them up. There was a lot of antisemitism right from the start. It wasn’t pleasant to grow up in that atmosphere and to suffer. Because I believe that every human being was created equal, and yet we were treated like second-class citizens. When Hitler came in, everything changed. We were constantly living in fear what was going to happen. We even heard from some people that they would take us to the German work camps. We had absolutely no understanding what that really, truly meant, you know. And then, one day in 1943, they took us to a so-called ghetto in the brick factory. They just came into our home. Whatever you were in— if you were in your pajamas—that’s the way you had to go. You couldn’t take anything. It was very cold. We were in sort of a trance. We didn’t know that such things could happen, that they could treat people like this. It was very hard; we were only rationed a certain amount of food. We weren’t allowed to go to the city anymore. Some people lost their marbles. And I was working there to help, like a nurse. I always had a lot of compassion towards people, so I was able to communicate and calm them down.

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I don’t know the exact time, they put us into wagons and transported us to Auschwitz. It’s very difficult to describe the whole thing. It didn’t seem real that these things were possible, that this was really happening, that we were treated like animals. You had no future, and you could see it. You were intelligent enough to realize that if they treat you that way, your future didn’t look good. Still, we lived with some hopes.

William (Bill) Harvey Bearing Witness, Survivors of Auschwitz (detail) 108

The whole [experience at Auschwitz] happened in such a short period of time. I was there for about 10 days, and suddenly they needed people to work. They just picked us out from the crowd. And then, they took me to Buchenwald. I was liberated in Buchenwald. And you couldn’t believe it was possible, that you were really free. You just didn’t believe that. I was just looking forward to leaving the whole camp and leave behind all that experience. We all survived except my mother. She was killed in Auschwitz. Our neighbors, who practically used to live in my mother’s house—her door was always open to help anybody—she was that type of person— those same people told us that it was too bad that Hitler left a few of us behind to hate. I was astonished. I didn’t know how to answer. I thought that when we come out of the camp and we’re going to walk on the street, everybody go bow to us, that they wouldn’t believe a human being could survive such a suffering what I endured, what I witnessed, what I had seen. So, to me, it was unbelievable that people still had that much hatred and that much discrimination. It was very difficult to accept. And when I went to America, I learned to just talk about pleasant things, not my experience. It took me a long time to learn that if people didn’t experience the same thing, they don’t believe. I learned that if you smile, the world smiles with you. When you cry, you cry alone.”

William (Bill) Harvey Bearing Witness, Survivors of Auschwitz (detail) 108

My name is Betty Cohen. I was born Rebecca Corper in Amsterdam in Holland in 1921, March 23rd. I was born in Amsterdam, but we moved to Hilversum after I was about one year old. I had two older brothers. My oldest brother, Jacob, was about 9 years older than I am and my other brother, Israel, about 7. I did not encounter antisemitism in Holland. Not in Hilversum. I always remember my father saying that it was going to be here too. And we would always say, never in Holland. The Queen would never allow it. It will never be here. Nobody paid attention really until 1939, 1940. August or September of ’42, I went into hiding in Hilversum with my future husband and his brother. After a while, my parents came to Hilversum, and we ended up with 19 people in that little place. We were there two years. We were caught in ’44. We heard banging on the door about 6 o’clock in the morning, we were in our night clothes and there was the SS or the Gestapo. They took us to the police station. We were interrogated by the Dutch police. From there they transported us to Amsterdam, to the SS headquarters, and from there, to Westerbork. We stayed there for almost 2 months. We knew then that there was an Auschwitz. We were wondering why didn’t they bomb the railroad stations so that we couldn’t go. Nobody did anything. Why didn’t they do that! We don’t know where we’re going. We were always so scared. As we came up to Birkenau, my father hugged us and we cried all together when we saw all that was going on there.

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We went to a separate women’s block, block 10, which was the experiment block. We were called one at a time and put on the table like when you go to a gynecologist and you lie there. It was very humiliating. It was horrible. It must have been some kind of a sterilization, I guess. I had children, thank God, but most of my friends don’t.

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On January 18, we had to go out on the march. Two girls kind of dragged me along because if you couldn’t walk, they just shot you. We went to Ravensbrück. There was nothing to do, and it was so full that you had to climb through a window to go out from the barracks. Then we went to Malchow, a small camp. Every day, you heard the bombing or the shooting, the Russians coming closer. There was no food – that was really the worst. There was really nothing to do there. There was nice grass there, we used to eat the grass. I was liberated May 5. We woke up in the morning and there was nobody around, we just could walk. So we walked and we came to farms. We went to one farm and asked them if we could get something to eat. And the German farmers said “Well you can rest in the barn.” In the evening, there were all the trucks coming in and there were the Russians. And they took the family, put them in the barn and they put us in the house and they said that we didn’t have to be afraid. They were very nice to us. They really helped us. When I came back to Holland I was 67 lbs. I wanted to go home to Hilversum so bad. It was of course a wonderful reunion when [my husband] got back. Both us went to live in Bussum. We got married in October 4 of 1945. There was no other conversation than what we went through and what we lost.

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My name is Elisabeth Mann. My maiden name is Elisabeth Mohr. I was born in 1925, December, in Kecskemét, Hungary. My father’s name was Josef and my mother’s name is Charlotte Mohr. And I had an older brother, Imra, an older sister, Claire, and a younger brother, Laci. I remember very well my childhood. It was a very happy childhood. My father played the violin very beautifully. My mother had a gorgeous voice, so singing was always in our house. My father had a dream [to have] his own orchestra of his four children. So we all four started different kinds of musical instruments to make up the orchestra. My relationship with the non-Jewish population was very warm and very good because I did go to school. They were all Catholic children. And they came to my house after school. I never felt—that was our tragedy— that I never felt that I am different from them. You see? I don’t know if you know what assimilate means-- that we didn’t feel different from the Christians. In the Kecskemét ghetto, the SS one day came in and said we have 10 minutes to pack everything that we want to take. And we will be relocated. We did go through the middle of the road in the city to the railroad station. And my beloved Hungarians were lined in the sidewalks looking at us. Many people asked for water, and nobody offered, not even one drop of water.

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My first day in Auschwitz-Birkenau, the loudspeaker came on and told us to separate; the men should come form a group. And women and children should form another group. My little brother unfortunately asked me, “Where do I belong— to the men or to the women?” In the Jewish religion, when you reach age 13, you become a bar mitzvah, and my little brother just five months earlier became a bar mitzvah. So he didn’t know where he belongs. Unfortunately, I told him to go with my mother. I didn’t know that with my advice, I killed my brother. Because all the

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children and all the mothers were taken directly to the gas chamber. I didn’t know that. I didn’t know where we are to begin with. But I never could forgive myself. I was the only one from my whole family . . . I was the only survivor. I was five months in Auschwitz, asking groups passing each other if they know where is my sister. I wanted desperately to meet her. And finally, when I did see her, I run over to her. We hugged. And she said, “We have to tell the world what is happening here. Because no one would ever believe that.” That was the last time I saw her. In Auschwitz, I never saw the sky. I never thought I am imprisoned, even I knew I was. People were dying around me, and any minute I could have been shot, but somehow I always escaped when I saw the smoke. I closed my eyes, and I was back in my thought in my home with my parents, and my sister and brothers. I always lived in two places, you know, in my imagination. That’s the way I survived Auschwitz. Somehow, I never gave up hope and faith. Unfortunately, right now, and after the war, I am still in two places. I am here in Los Angeles, thank God. But I am in Auschwitz also, every single day. I just can’t escape that. You know, the Germans wanted to make us inhuman. They wanted to take our spirit— our energy and life. But they never could. Regardless of [what] I did go through in concentration camp and all the tremendous disappointment that I suffered from people and from life, I still believe the majority of people are good.

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Study of Renee Firestoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hands/arms for Bearing Witness (top) Study of Ella Mandelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hands for Bearing Witness (bottom) 121

Portrait Study of Pinchas Gutter 122

Portrait Study of Eva Schloss 123

Portrait Study of Pinchas Gutter 122

Portrait Study of Eva Schloss 123

Study of Pinchas Gutter 124

Study of Edward Mosberg

Study of Hanna Pankowsky

Study of Eva Geiringer Scholoss 125

Study of Pinchas Gutter 124

Study of Edward Mosberg

Study of Hanna Pankowsky

Study of Eva Geiringer Scholoss 125

Gloria Ungar portrait study for Bearing Witness 126

Joseph Aleksander portrait study for Bearing Witness

Amrom Deutsch portrait study for Bearing Witness

Renee Firestone portrait study for Bearing Witness 127

Gloria Ungar portrait study for Bearing Witness 126

Joseph Aleksander portrait study for Bearing Witness

Amrom Deutsch portrait study for Bearing Witness

Renee Firestone portrait study for Bearing Witness 127

Henry Oster portrait study for Bearing Witness 128

Ella Mandel portrait study for Bearing Witness

Morris Price portrait study for Bearing Witness

Jack Lewin portrait study for Bearing Witness 129

Henry Oster portrait study for Bearing Witness 128

Ella Mandel portrait study for Bearing Witness

Morris Price portrait study for Bearing Witness

Jack Lewin portrait study for Bearing Witness 129

William (Bill) Harvey portrait study for Bearing Witness 130

Betty Cohen portrait study for Bearing Witness

Elisabeth Mann portrait study for Bearing Witness 131

William (Bill) Harvey portrait study for Bearing Witness 130

Betty Cohen portrait study for Bearing Witness

Elisabeth Mann portrait study for Bearing Witness 131

Study of Henry Oster’s hands/arms for Bearing Witness (top) Study of Jack Lewin’s hands for Bearing Witness (bottom) 132

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Study of Henry Oster’s hands/arms for Bearing Witness (top) Study of Jack Lewin’s hands for Bearing Witness (bottom) 132

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Exhibition Checklist John Adler, Survivor to Soldier 2018 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 27 x 34 in. Vaziri Private Collection

Joshua Kaufman, The Volunteer 2018 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 26 ½ x 26 ½ in. Museum Purchase

Eva Geiringer Scholoss 2019 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 22 x 33 in. Private Collection

Louise and Lazar Farkas, Love and Resilience 2017 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 46 x 42 in. Private Lender

Roman Kent 2018 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 35 x 25 in. The Kent Family, NYC

Study of Eva Geiringer Scholoss 2017 Charcoal on toned paper 20 ½ x 12 in. Collection of the Artist

Bella and Roslyn, Twin Survivors of the Shoah 2016 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 56 x 43 in. Dubi Shiff Art Collection Miami, Florida

Raya Kovensky, Witness to Kristallnacht 2018 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 40 x 27 ½ in. Heiskell Family Collection

Roslyn 2015 Oil on double oil primed linen panel 18 x 14 in. Courtesy of Gallery Henoch

Edward Mosberg, Survivor of Plaszow and Mauthausen 2019 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 22 x 30 in. Collection of the Artist

Portrait Study of Eva Geiringer Scholoss 2018 Col-erase pencil in a Moleskine sketchbook 8 x 10 in. Collection of the Artist

Sam Goldofsky, Survivor of the Shoah 2015 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 41 x 27 in. Brian and Sheri Anderson Pinchas Gutter, Survivor of Majdanek 2019 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 24 x 30 in. Collection of the Artist Study of Pinchas Gutter 2017 Charcoal on toned paper 20 ½ x 12 in. Collection of the Artist Portrait Study of Pinchas Gutter 2018 Col-erase pencil on Moleskine paper 8 x 10 in. Collection of the Artist Andy Holten, Hidden Child, study 2018 Oil on Moleskin paper 14 ¾ x 12 ¾ in. Zepeda Family Private Collection

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Study of Edward Mosberg 2018 Charcoal on toned paper 20 x 12 in. Collection of the Artist Hanna Davidson Pankowsky, East of the Storm 2018 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 35 x 25 in. Courtesy of Gallery Henoch Study of Hanna Pankowsky 2018 Charcoal on toned paper 20 x 12 in. Collection of the Artist Elsa Ross, Hidden Child 2016 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 30 x 20 in. Private Collection

Bearing Witness, Survivors of Auschwitz 2017–2019 Oil on acrylic mirror panel 210 x 96 in. Collection of the Artist Gloria Ungar portrait study for Bearing Witness 2017 Charcoal on toned paper 20 ½ x 12 in. Collection of the Artist Joseph Aleksander portrait study for Bearing Witness 2017 Charcoal on toned paper 20 ½ x 12 in. Collection of the Artist Amrom Deutsch portrait study for Bearing Witness 2017 Charcoal on toned paper 20 ½ x 12 in. Collection of the Artist Renee Firestone portrait study for Bearing Witness 2017 Charcoal on toned paper 20 ½ x 12 in. Collection of the Artist

Study of Renee Firestone’s hands/arms for Bearing Witness 2017 Col-erase pencil on Moleskine paper 8 x 10 in Collection of the Artist

William (Bill) Harvey portrait study for Bearing Witness 2018 Charcoal on toned paper 20 ½ x 12 in. Collection of the Artist

Henry Oster portrait study for Bearing Witness 2018 Charcoal on toned paper 20 ½ x 12 in. Collection of the Artist

Betty Cohen portrait study for Bearing Witness 2017 Charcoal on toned paper 20 ½ x 12 in. Collection of the Artist

Study of Henry Oster’s hands/arms for Bearing Witness 2017 Col-erase pencil on Moleskine paper 10 x 8 in Collection of the Artist

Elisabeth Mann portrait study for Bearing Witness 2017 Charcoal on toned paper 20 ½ x 12 in. Collection of the Artist

Ella Mandel portrait study for Bearing Witness 2018 Charcoal on toned paper 20 ½ x 12 in. Collection of the Artist Study of Ella Mandel’s hands for Bearing Witness 2017 Col-erase pencil on Moleskine paper 8 x 10 in. Collection of the Artist Morris Price portrait study for Bearing Witness 2018 Charcoal on toned paper 20 ½ x 12 in. Collection of the Artist Jack Lewin portrait study for Bearing Witness 2017 Charcoal on toned paper 20 ½ x 12 in. Collection of the Artist Study of Jack Lewin’s hands for Bearing Witness 2017 Col-erase pencil on Moleskine paper 8 x 10 in. Collection of the Artist

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