Memoir of a small boy who was separated from his family at the age of three or four-years-old after his father was killed during a round-up of Jews in Latvia, and was sent to the Majdanek death camp where he was discovered by Allied soldiers in 1945.
I survived; quite a lot of other children did too. The plan was for us to die, not survive. According to the logic of the plan, and the orderly rules they devised to carry it out, we should have been dead. But we're alive. We're the living contradiction to logic and order. I'm not a poet or a writer. I can only try to use words to draw as exactly as possible what happened, what I saw; exactly the way my child's memory has held on to it; with no benefit of perspective or vanishing point. - p. 4-5.
