My father was a joker. He was a hard worker. He was a great provider and a loving father. he was caring, to friends, to neighbors and to strangers. With all he's gone through, he never stopped joking, not even to his last day.
My father was born in 1918, in Bruchzal, Germany, about 100 miles fro Nuremberg. He lived there for his first six years. With the crash of the stock market in 1924 the family moved to France.
The family moved to Poland. He lived there for ten years until the Nazis took over and moved the whole town into the ghettos and the the camps.
He was in concentration camp for six years, liberated in 1945.
He went back to Germany for a few years and arrived in he US in 1948.
He married my mother in 1950, 57 years ago (as of this writing).
He was from a small family, just one sister. His father, my grandfather, was one of 17. His mother, my grandmother as one of six.
I never met any of them.
He as a man with a good heart He loved to joke He never complained He showed his love, he did not speak of it When I was in pain, I could see the anquish in his eyes and hear it in his voice My father was a survivor Not of the camps, but in life
