Real Artifact

These walls tell the story of their lives.

I walk along with utter devotion trying not to miss a word.

It is the only token I have to extend to them.

He approaches with sort of a shuffle.

Gray tweed coat, white hair, small wire rimmed glasses, older than dirt.

I am in love at first sight.

He asks if I can read the sign and I tell him I took Spanish instead of German in school. 

So, he tells me that it says to sell nothing to the Jews, explaining that was the beginning.

When I inquire about his birthplace he tells me he is Polish and he lived under Hitler's rule for seven years.

I am walking around this Jewish heritage museum when I come face to face with a living artifact.

A true survivor.

My interest in the tour feigns. I only want to know this man.

This living being who has walked through hell and come out the other side.

How much strength must be disguised in his fragile frame.

He lost his entire family in one minute.

He was young and left in a hot field with no water for days.

He was placed in four different ghettos otherwise known as concentration camps.

His story spills out from him in bits and pieces.

Pointing to the pictures he utters, "This is the truth of it. Photos couldn't lie back then." 

The tears will not stay put.

I rest my hand on his arm and tell him I am so sorry about what he has gone through and so happy that he is still here.

"It wasn't easy", he says as he waddles away.

There is no comprehending the torment this sweet soul has endured but in the sharing of his story I felt as if we had entered into a sacred realm for the briefest of moments.

That somehow the telling of his tale allowed some of the sorrow to be sifted from his bones.

The testament of his mere presence in the midst of images of death permeated the air with a fortitude that inspires me still.