During the early 1980’s my father was stationed in Amberg, Germany at Pond Barracks.
We lived in military housing that I believe was located on Steubenstrasse, there in Amberg.
Somehow, surely it was through my mother, our family became acquainted and later friends with an older German lady named Margaret.
Margaret lived next-door to our building. To say that she was very nice to us would be a huge understatement.
We visited her often and though her English was about as good as our German, it made little difference. There was a connection that surpassed racial, national, or cultural divisions.
Margaret had told my mother of being a survivor of Auschwitz concentration camp during World War II. In fact, Margaret was there when the Soviet troops liberated the camp on January 27, 1945.
When my mother told me, I was awestruck.
I had already read about Anne Frank and could not grasp that Margaret had seen and survived such horrors as that.
Somehow or another we ended up spending a few days over at Margaret’s house before we left Germany to go Stateside.
I remember Margaret giving us hot milk to put in our Frosted Flakes.
I noticed something. Her story was tattooed on her arm. I asked Margaret about the numbers.
“Auschwitz,” was the reply.
Before we left Germany, I gave my treasured porcelain doll to Margaret as a gift.
Three years later my father once again received orders to Germany, or West Germany as it was then.
We had the opportunity to visit Dachau, also a concentration camp, near Munich.
There are no words to describe the sights at that evil place.
That there was one survivor, let alone any others, is a testament to the power of God.
Wherever Margaret is today, I hope that she knows-
Jones, My Opinion