THE MAN OF THE TRENCHES

Hello, my name is Timothy. It is said that the actions of one man do not change the world, but I am against this. Today I come to tell you an old story that is still alive to this day, but first I will talk about my story.

For me it all starts in January 1933, when I was 5 years old. Everything in Germany was in chaos after the loss of the First World War, and after all this chaos, a manipulator rose to power. I'm talking about Adolf Hitler, who was appointed chancellor; however, he would not take power until the death of President Hindenburg and he would appoint himself the Führer (leader) and that's when it all started.

I am Jewish, and you know, at that time it was deadly to live in Germany. I used to live in one of the districts of Saxony, part of Germany. My childhood was happy until the Nazis came. One of the first things Hitler did was to exclude us from the social and economic life of Europe and many Jews were fired just for being Jews, works were destroyed because they were by Jewish authors, everything was in chaos; my father, because of this, lost his job and anticipating all this, he decided to move and with all our effort we sold everything we had at very low prices because of the Nazi regime and decided to move to the Czech Republic. There we managed to support ourselves for a short time.

By 1935, with much effort, we managed to have a small business that helped us survive. But that same year, Hitler enacted the Nuremberg Laws, which stripped Jews of German citizenship and prohibited them from marrying Germans. This didn't affect us, as we weren't in Germany, but my mother was German and my father was Jewish; for that reason, we would never return to Germany. Of course, happiness never lasts forever.

Then came the year 1938—March 28th, to be exact. Hitler demanded that Czechoslovakia adopt Nazi ideology, claiming that he was doing them a favor by allying with Nazi Germany. However, they refused, and Hitler, along with two other countries, formed the Munich Pact, seizing part of Czechoslovakia's territory. After this tremendous betrayal by these countries, the Nazi regime took control of the country and began broadcasting over the radio a process called "Aryanization," the goal of which was to confiscate Jewish businesses and property.

Without further delay, we had to sell our belongings again, but this time for a much lower price. At that point, my father refused and wanted to find a way to keep what little we had. It was a bad decision.

November 9th arrived; it was nighttime, and a huge commotion had broken out, with screams and wailing echoing everywhere. My father got up to see what was happening, and to our great surprise, we realized that looting and home invasions were taking place. But this wasn't normal; it only happened to Jewish citizens. Their homes were taken by force and their businesses looted (researchers would later call it Kristallnacht).

Without hesitation, my parents and I quickly grabbed some belongings to escape, as our house was being burned. At the time, I was 10 years old and terrified, but I was aware of the situation we were in. Despite my fear, I followed my father's orders to escape. However, when we managed to leave the house, we were chased. In a narrow alley, my father begged my mother to leave to survive, since she was German and could pass me off as her German son. At first, she refused, but my father yelled at her and pushed her away. Deep down, I knew the enormous sacrifice my father had made that night. The last thing I remember is seeing him fighting with several men while my mother and I, weeping uncontrollably, turned the corner and continued running.

It is estimated that around 100 Jews died that night.

In the following days, my mother did everything she could to protect me. We managed to escape from where we were, wandering aimlessly and starving until we reached Prague. But when we arrived, everything was chaos. Along the way, we hid from the many soldiers patrolling the area. We no longer knew what to do. One night, in a Prague neighborhood, three soldiers intercepted us. They were extremely arrogant toward my mother and forcibly detained us to investigate our origins.

That was the last day I saw my mother. The soldiers took her away, and to my horror, I saw her raped and killed. I was knocked unconscious by a blow to the head from his rifle.

When I woke up, I was shocked to discover I had been taken to a place called a ghetto. There, at just 10 years old, I was surrounded by a group of children my age. Lost, without parents to turn to for comfort, scared and alone, I made friends with other abandoned children.

Our caretaker was a kind young woman; I don't remember her name well, so I'll call her Emma. She must have been about 25; I have a vague memory of it. But what I do remember is that she treated us with love, caring for us and watching over us. However, at night, I could see how much she was suffering, as she also missed her parents, who had been murdered by the Nazis. I often shared her grief with her because my parents had also died. Over time, we formed a bond, like a family.

Days went by; we suffered from hunger and endured discrimination. At any moment, soldiers would take children away to the concentration camps in the area. Thanks to Emma, we had a somewhat bearable life, but it was far from good. Infections and diseases were an everyday occurrence; miraculously, I only suffered from hunger. Many of my childhood friends did not survive the miserable life we were living.

One night, I saw soldiers taking Emma away. I tried to stop them, but at my age, I wasn't even taken seriously. They kicked me hard and took her away. I cried a lot, but no one came to comfort me. We were alone in that house, and I thought I would never see her again. I cried until I fell asleep.

The next morning, I woke up and saw Emma coming back inside. She hadn't been taken away forever. Overjoyed, I ran to hug her, but I noticed that her face was bruised and her clothes were torn. She just smiled and said they had only interrogated her. But even at my young age, I already knew what they had done to Emma. I stayed silent and hugged her, apologizing for not being able to protect her.

She knelt down, hugged me back, and started crying. That day, we both cried in each other's arms.

The next afternoon, I was very hungry, and Emma went out to look for food. I stayed alone in the house where the other children Emma cared for used to live, but the soldiers had already taken them all, and now it was just me and Emma. There was no one else.

Lost in my thoughts, I heard a noise coming from the back of the house. Curious, I went to check through the window. Carefully, I peeked outside and saw, in the house next door, how Nazi soldiers were abusing a young girl. When they were done, they shot her in the head, killing her. Terrified, I fell backward and started praying that they hadn't seen me. With fear, I slowly lifted my head, and thanks to heaven, they were gone.

I backed away in terror, and minutes later, a heartbreaking scream was heard—it seemed to be the mother who had found her daughter dead. Scared and with tears in my eyes, I thought I would be next. I quickly ran to the third-floor window and climbed onto it. Even at my young age, I knew that if I died, I could see my mother and father again. Determined to end my own life, with trembling legs, I took a leap to finally find peace.

To my great surprise, someone pulled me back into the room—it was Emma. She slapped me and then hugged me, asking why I had tried to do that. Crying, I explained everything that had happened. She just held me tightly and promised that nothing would happen to me. She took my hands and swore that one day she would get me out of that place. We hugged each other.

Through her tears, she told me that she saw me as a son and that she couldn't bear the thought of losing me. In a sad voice, I promised her that I would never do it again. That night, we just cried ourselves to sleep until the next day.

The days passed, and by then, it was December of that year. I don't know how we survived all that time—perhaps divine help or just our will to live.

One morning, while walking through the area with Emma, we went out to look for food. As we walked through one of the camps, we came across a few well-dressed gentlemen. We knew they weren't from the ghetto because of the way they dressed. One of them caught my attention—his eyes were filled with both disbelief and sorrow. That man approached Emma and me, looking us over. He said nothing, just examined us from head to toe with a deeply saddened expression, and then walked away.

I didn't know what that man wanted from us.

As the months went by, a rumor began spreading like wildfire among the Jewish communities—a man named Nicholas Winton was organizing a rescue operation for children trapped in the ghettos. Emma did everything she could to save me.

I didn't want to be separated from Emma, but not many countries had agreed to take us in. Only a few did, and Great Britain had accepted only minors under 18 years old, which meant Emma was not on the list. She just told me that everything would be okay, that she would accompany me on the journey.

I spent the following months waiting. By then, it was 1939, and several trains had already departed, saving many children like me. On August 2nd, Emma and I were finally about to board the train. We headed to the gates where we would be taken when a kind man greeted us. It was the same man I had seen in the slums a while back. I didn't know anything about him, but he hugged me and helped me get on.

While I waited at the gate for Emma, ​​she didn't get on. Desperate, I ran to a train window to look for her, thinking she might be in line. But to my great surprise, I saw her standing on the platform. When our eyes met, we both burst into tears. Deep down, I knew they couldn't save her, but I wanted to believe otherwise.

In the end, we simply said goodbye, and I shouted "Thank you so much!" as loudly as I could, almost losing my voice. I could only cry in frustration as I watched Emma fade into the distance. She had fallen to her knees, grieving just as I had for my departure.

The train was headed to Liverpool Street Station in London, where our adoptive families were waiting for us. I never knew what happened to Emma, ​​but I always prayed to God to keep her safe.

Later, I learned that my train was the last to leave and that it had been the second-to-last one planned. On September 1, 1939, after invading Poland, the Nazis managed to close the borders, preventing the last train carrying children from leaving. That train, with about 250 children on board, disappeared that day. The news devastated me.

Years later, on September 2, 1945, World War II finally ended, bringing great changes to the world. The most significant was the creation of the atomic bomb, a monstrous weapon that also claimed countless lives.

As for me, I was adopted by a very kind family who gave me an education, and I later developed a successful career as a mechanic. I was drawn to engines, perhaps because I had seen my father repair them several times. The war was over, and I was glad that this dark stain on history had finally been healed.

I was able to live a normal life, although I was always tormented by memories of the past. But as I grew older, thanks to my wife and the help of psychologists, I managed to move on.

Now, more than 50 years have passed, and after all this time, we finally discovered the identity of the man who saved us during those tormenting years. A very kind man whom I recognized despite his advanced age: the same man who had watched us in the ghetto, the same man who had helped me get on the train.

We paid tribute to him thanks to his wife, who had discovered his hidden notebook. This great man never expected anything in return for saving our lives. On a television program, we showed him how much we owed him for rescuing us. He was deeply satisfied with what he had accomplished and thanked us.

Over time, he was honored with numerous awards, and I will always be grateful to him for saving me, and to Emma, ​​wherever she may be.

I know Emma gave her life for me, and for that I have immense love and respect for her. It hurts not knowing what happened to her, but in my heart, she will always be like a second mother to me.

Without further ado, this was my story. Thank you for reading.

Remember: never lose faith, because at the end of every tunnel there is always a light.

Thank you so much, and good luck, survivors.

(IN TRIBUTE TO SIR NICHOLAS WINTON)

 END OF VOLUME 2