Sunday, December 21, 2008

Angel With Apples

This is the most amazing story that was emailed to me! Enjoy!

(This is a true story and you can find out more by Googling Herman
Rosenblat. He was Bar Mitzvahed at age 75)
August 1942. Piotrkow , Poland

The sky was gloomy that morning as we waited anxiously. All the men,
women and children of Piotrkow's Jewish ghetto had been herded into a

Word had gotten around that we were being moved. My father had only
recently died from typhus, which had run rampant through the crowded
ghetto. My greatest fear was that our family would be separated.

'Whatever you do,' Isidore, my eldest brother, whispered to me,
'don't tell them your age. Say you're sixteen.

'I was tall for a boy of 11, so I could pull it off. That way I might
be deemed valuable as a worker.

An SS man approached me, boots clicking against the cobblestones. He
looked me up and down, and then asked my age.

'Sixteen,' I said. He directed me to the left, where my three brothers
and other healthy young men already stood.

My mother was motioned to the right with the other women, children,
sick and elderly people.

I whispered to Isidore, 'Why?'

He didn't answer.

I ran to Mama's side and said I wanted to stay with her.

'No, 'she said sternly.

'Get away. Don't be a nuisance. Go with your brothers.'

She had never spoken so harshly before. But I understood: She was
protecting me. She loved me so much that, just this once, she
pretended not to. It was the last I ever saw of her.

My brothers and I were transported in a cattle car to Germany

We arrived at the Buchenwald concentration camp one night weeks later
and were led into a crowded barrack. The next day, we were issued
uniforms and identification numbers.

'Don't call me Herman anymore.' I said to my brothers. 'Call me 94983.'

I was put to work in the camp's crematorium, loading the dead into a
hand-cranked elevator.

I, too, felt dead. Hardened, I had become a number.

Soon, my brothers and I were sent to Schlieben, one of Buchenwald's
sub-camps near Berlin

One morning I thought I heard my mother's voice.

'Son,' she said softly but clearly, I am going to send you an angel.'

Then I woke up. Just a dream. A beautiful dream.

But in this place there could be no angels. There was only work. And
hunger. And fear

A couple of days later, I was walking around the camp, around the
barracks, near the barbed-wire fence where the guards could not easily
see. I was alone.

On the other side of the fence, I spotted someone: a little girl with
light, almost luminous curls. She was half-hidden behind a birch tree.

I glanced around to make sure no one saw me. I called to her softly in
German. 'Do you have something to eat?'

She didn't understand.

I inched closer to the fence and repeated the question in Polish. She
stepped forward. I was thin and gaunt, with rags wrapped around my
feet, but the girl looked unafraid. In her eyes, I saw life.

She pulled an apple from her woolen jacket and threw it over the fence.

I grabbed the fruit and, as I started to run away, I heard her say
faintly, 'I'll see you tomorrow.'

I returned to the same spot by the fence at the same time every day.
She was always there with something for me to eat - a hunk of bread
or, better yet, an apple.

We didn't dare speak or linger. To be caught would mean death for us

I didn't know anything about her, just a kind farm girl, except that
she understood Polish. What was her name? Why was she risking her life
for me?Hope was in such short supply, and this girl on the other side
of the fence gave me some, as nourishing in its way as the bread and

Nearly seven months later, my brothers and I were crammed into a coal
car and shipped to Theresienstadt camp in Czechoslovakia .

'Don't return,' I told the girl that day. 'We're leaving.

I turned toward the barracks and didn't look back, didn't even say
good-bye to the little girl whose name I'd never learned, the girl
with the apples.

We were in Theresienstadt for three months. The war was winding down
forces were and Allied closing in, yet my fate seemed sealed.

On May 10, 1945, I was scheduled to die in the gas chamber at 10:00 AM.

In the quiet of dawn, I tried to prepare myself. So many times death
seemed ready to claim me, but somehow I'd survived. Now, it was over.

I thought of my parents. At least, I thought, we will be reunited.

But at 8 A.M. there was a commotion. I heard shouts, and saw people
running every which way through camp. I caught up with my brothers

Russian troops had liberated the camp! The gates swung open. Everyone
was running, so I did too. Amazingly, all of my brothers had survived;

I'm not sure how But I knew that the girl with the apples had been the
key to my survival.

In a place where evil seemed triumphant, one person's goodness had
saved my life, had given me hope in a place where there was none.

My mother had promised to send me an angel, and the angel had come.

Eventually I made my way to England where I was sponsored by a Jewish
charity, put up in a hostel with other boys who had survived the
Holocaust and trained in electronics. Then I came to America , where
my brother Sam had already moved. I served in the U. S. Army during
the Korean War, and returned to New York City after two years.

By August 1957 I'd opened my own electronics repair shop. I was
starting to settle in.

One day, my friend Sid who I knew from England called me.

'I've got a date. She's got a Polish friend. Let's double date.'

A blind date? Nah, that wasn't for me.

But Sid kept pestering me, and a few days later we headed up to the
Bronx to pick up his date and her friend Roma.

I had to admit, for a blind date this wasn't so bad. Roma was a nurse
at a Bronx hospital. She was kind and smart. Beautiful, too, with
swirling brown curls and green, almond-shaped eyes that sparkled with

The four of us drove out to Coney Island . Roma was easy to talk to,
easy to be with.

Turned out she was wary of blind dates too!

We were both just doing our friends a favor. We took a stroll on the
boardwalk, enjoying the salty Atlantic breeze, and then had dinner by
the shore. I couldn't remember having a better time.

We piled back into Sid's car, Roma and I sharing the backseat.

As European Jews who had survived the war, we were aware that much had
been left unsaid between us. She broached the subject, 'Where were
you,' she asked softly, 'during the war?'

'The camps,' I said. The terrible memories still vivid, the
irreparable loss. I had tried to forget. But you can never forget.

She nodded. 'My family was hiding on a farm in Germany , not far from
Berlin ,' she told me. 'My father knew a priest, and he got us Aryan

I imagined how she must have suffered too, fear, a constant companion.
And yet here we were both survivors, in a new world.

'There was a camp next to the farm.' Roma continued. 'I saw a boy
there and I would throw him apples every day.'

What an amazing coincidence that she had helped some other boy. 'What
did he look like? I asked.

'He was tall, skinny, and hungry. I must have seen him every day for
six months.'

My heart was racing. I couldn't believe it.

This couldn't be.

Did he tell you one day not to come back because he was leaving

Roma looked at me in amazement. 'Yes!'

'That was me!'

I was ready to burst with joy and awe, flooded .with emotions I
couldn't believe it! My angel.

'I'm not letting you go.' I said to Roma. And in the back of the car
on that blind date, I proposed to her. I didn't want to wait

'You're crazy!' she said. But she invited me to meet her parents for
Shabbat dinner the following week.

There was so much I looked forward to learning about Roma, but the
most important things I always knew: her steadfastness, her goodness.
For many months, in the worst of circumstances, she had come to the
fence and given me hope. Now that I'd found her again, I could never
let her go.

That day, she said yes. And I kept my word. After nearly 50 years of
marriage, two children and three grandchildren, I have never let her

Herman Rosenblat of Miami Beach , Florida

This story is being made into a movie called The Fence.

This story reminds me of something God seems to be reminding me of lately - how God can supernaturally bring a person of the opposite sex into your life to bring the perfect choice He has for you to share your life with.

I just saw the play "Shadowlands" the adaptation of the movie at the Guthrie theater in Minneapolis, and it was fantastic. It is the story of C.S. Lewis meeting Joy Gresham, the woman he ended up marrying. He met her when he was 54, a confirmed bachelor - a total surprise. They were people who would find it hard to meet another person who would fit their needs in a mate, and their meeting was a total act of God. It just seems like God is trying to tell me something, especially considering Lewis and I aren't far apart in age. This story is also about an act of God.

And by the way, Happy Hanukkah!


Helen said...

You're right, that is an amazing story. I just emailed it to my cousin. Thank you for sharing it.

Gabrielle Eden said...

I'm glad it was meaningful for you. It totally blessed me! It reminds me that Jews and Christians can walk very close to each other with regards to faith.

Peter Kubicek said...

This oft-told, tired, discredited story is suddenly ubiquitous, ever since Mr. Rosenblatt acquired a P.R. person.

It has been thoroughly debunked as fiction by serious Holocaust scholars. All elements of the "Apples Over the Fence" tale are implausible, while some contradict verifiable historical facts. As a survivor of 6 German concentration camps, I approach it from the other side of the fence, so to speak. It is impossible to enumerate all these fictions within the space of 300 words. Let me fasten on only one assertion.

To quote, "On May 10, 1945, I was scheduled to die in the gas chamber at 10:00 AM." There are three things wrong with this statement.

1) Nobody was ever given an advance appointment for execution in the gas chamber, for the simple reason that the Germans wanted us to go peacefully, without resistance.

2) There was never a gas chamber in Theresienstadt.

3) The War ended officially on May 8, 1945, so this constant repetition of the May 10 execution date is quite ludicrous.

Anyone wishing to hear more can e-mail me at

Gabrielle Eden said...

Dear Mr. Kubicek,

Let sleeping dogs lie. This is a great story - let it be told!