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THROUGH MY FATHER’S EYES

Some survivors never talk about the holocaust.

Fortunately, Mayer Fischer did.

After nearly 70 years of hearing the stories of the holocaust, maybe we’ve become a little numb to what happened. Barry Fischer, by making sure his father’s words were put into print, has changed that. While every holocaust survivor’s story is important, the way Barry and Mayer tell it is powerfully moving. It brings to vivid reality what life was like in Poland, the ghetto and the camps. It drives home how families were brutally, and abruptly, torn asunder. How husbands and sons were separated from wives and daughters, many never to see each other again. How work was impossible on the meager rations people were fed, but still somehow was accomplished. How life and death were in-your-face facts of every day existence.

Yet this story is told from the perspective of survivor, not victim. It is heart rending instead of gut wrenching. It inspires rather than causes us to turn our heads and look away. And it proves that true and lasting love could be found despite the unimaginable losses.

Author Barry Fischer grew up in a deeply loving and devoted family. While his mother, Blima, chose, as many survivors did, to put the past behind her, his father, Mayer, took another path. He made telling the tales of his holocaust experience a part of a caring family environment.

We all are enriched because he did.

Barry lives, works and writes in Beverly Hills, California.

Read an Excerpt

 

From CHAPTER ONE

EARLY MEMORIES

When I look at pictures of Poland, they are in black and white, but my memories are in full, vivid color. Krakow, Poland, was a large city. The downtown area resembled New York, filled with big buildings, churches, and apartment complexes. When I was a small child, the buildings looked gigantic. Luckily they were painted so you could tell one from the next.

Krakow’s streets were colorful with reds and yellows, browns and greens. In the summertime, all of the restaurants had outdoor seating. Yellow, purple, and orange flowers bloomed in the street planters, on balconies, and in the markets. The market square filled with farmers selling vegetables, fruits, and grains. As a teenager, I worked at the mill that ground the wheat and corn into grain, which was sold at the markets.

Outside the market square, the city sprawled along the river Vistula. The hills reflected hues of green, and the sky in the late summer was grand and blue.

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