I was born in Warsaw in September 1923, to Benjamin and Elka Bar. I was the middle child of three, with an older brother Hershel and a younger sister, Sarah. My father was a prosperous manufacturer of quality men’s suits and overcoats and we lived well. A pleasant Jewish girl from the country was our housekeeper. We children had a wonderful childhood and enjoyed going to an excellent private Jewish school. I was a good scholar and loved reading so much, my mother had to remove the globe in my room so I wouldn‘t read too late into the night. For two months every summer, we rented a villa in the forest with six other families who were close friends of my parents. The fathers stayed behind to work in Warsaw, but joined us from Friday evenings to Sunday mornings. It was a beautiful time of our lives.

Neither of my parents was originally from Warsaw. My mother was born in the shtetl of Zelechow, about a hundred kilometres north- west of Warsaw. My father’s sister, Raizl Oshlack still lived there with her husband Avroomche. My father came from the neighbouring provincial town of Garvolin. Whenever family members from both these places came to Warsaw for business or other reasons, they would look us up or stay with us.

There were six children in my Aunt Raisl’s house, Yossel, Blumba, Tauba, Gedalia, Srulik and Pesale. I knew Yossel best, even though he was three years my senior, because he often accompanied his father to Warsaw. Between seasons, (the family were Komashe – machers- the makers of the uppers of shoes and boots) he sometimes rode his bike all the way to Warsaw, and stayed with us for a few days.

Just before my sixteenth birthday, on September 3rd 1939, the Germans invaded Poland. That was the beginning of the end but we did not know it then.

I don’t have the strength to describe all of my experiences during the war.  I do, however, want to give testimony to one experience, which is engraved in my memory, because it took place not during the war, but after the liberation, when we had already begun to breathe fresh air; when our terror of the German murderers had passed. When the world had already returned to its normal order of life, I survived a terrible night – more terrible than the nights in Majdanek and Auschwitz, where I spent almost two years.

On May 17, 1945, I was liberated by the Red Army in the town of Bielivoda, in the Czech Sudeten. With me, was my comrade in suffering, with whom I had endured every camp. Her name was Saba Edelmann, and she also came from Warsaw.

After spending a month in a village in Czechoslovakia, we travelled to Poland to find out whether anyone in our families was still alive.  We took trains to Lodz and then to Warsaw, but to our great sorrow, found none of our relatives or close friends.  We decided to travel to Zelechow. I thought that perhaps someone from my family had survived there. I had been to my mother’s home town only once before, in 1941. My family was by then living in the Warsaw Ghetto, except for my brother Hershel, who had escaped to Zelechow, to avoid the daily beatings, humiliation and round-ups for hard labour. My father paid a smuggler to get me out of the ghetto so that I could go to Hershel and give him some money to help him survive. I found him well, living with my Aunt Raisl, and proud that he had joined the local fire brigade. My job done, I returned to Warsaw, where I was smuggled back into the ghetto, to rejoin my family.  We had no idea about the extermination camps, and believed that by sticking together, we would survive these terrible times. I was the only one to survive.

Now, with the war over, my girlfriend didn’t want to part with me even for one day, although she had no one in Zelechow.

We went by train to Sobolew. I don’t remember the date. The trip took some hours, and then it took another two hours to reach Zelechow by horse and buggy. We arrived when it was already dark. We went to the address of a Polish acquaintance, Wlodarczyk.  Before the war he had been the treasurer of the court in Zelechow and commander of the firemen.  He didn’t recognize me.  When I explained to him who I was, he remembered my family.  I asked about their fate and received the answer that none of them was alive.  After a brief conversation, he took us to two Jewish men who were boarding with the Polish family Gugala. He thought we might be able to rent a bed there for the night.

We really didn’t have anything left to do in Zelechov, but since there was no transport till morning, we had little choice but to put off our return to Warsaw for the next day. But fate had it otherwise.
We were able to stay at the Gugala house Two other Jewish women turned up as well; that made six of us, the two men already living there, and four women needing a bed for the night. One was Mrs Pearl Feingezicht, who told me that my cousin Yossel and his brother Gedalia had survived, and were living in Lodz. She even gave me the address. I was very excited and determined to go there the next day.

 We prepared places to sleep, but as soon as we dropped off to sleep, we were awakened by a commotion at the door and window.  We jumped up in terror.  I managed to put on my slippers and throw a coat over my nightshirt. Men burst into the house, I don’t remember how many, and we were driven out into the street. I only remember that everywhere I looked, the barrels of pistols and rifles were pointed toward us. The others were also half-naked.

We four women were led out in front of the house and ordered to sit down on a bench.  Then the men were led out naked and shot.  A boy of twenty fell some three meters away from us.  His name was Shlomo Hefner and he was from Zelechow.  He had survived the war in the Soviet Union and had returned ‘home’ after the war, only to fall at the hands of the bandits.  The second man escaped.  The bandits shot at him, but fortunately they missed.

Seeing this, we began to ask the murderers for mercy – not so much asking, as simply begging for our lives.  One of us, a pregnant woman, knelt and kissed the bandits’ feet.  She was answered with shots.  The woman fell dead not far from us; they also shot Pearl Feingezicht.  I was third on the bench, and then my girlfriend.  She suddenly jumped up and ran off into the house and hid under the bed. Instinctively I ran after her, and received a bullet in my left thigh.  Fortunately, the bullet only grazed me, and I was able to keep running. I ran into the room where my friend was under the bed.  I turned to her and said,
“Saba, where are you?  Turn toward me, I want to hide next to you, I’m wounded.”

“There’s no room here, there are suitcases behind me, hide somewhere else.” answered Saba.

I went into another room, hid under a sewing table in a corner, and covered myself with pieces of cloth.
The murderers came into the room and turned to the Polish family.

“Where are the two Jewesses who ran away?” they shouted. No one replied.  They searched under the bed with a torch and found my poor girlfriend.  They wanted to pull her out from under the bed, but she pleaded with them in moving words which I will never forget, “Sirs, don’t kill me, I’ve lived through such a terrible war. I’ve lost everything and everyone. Give me life, I want to live.”

A few shots resounded, and my comrade was silenced forever. 

Immediately after they killed her, the bandits began searching for me.  They came into the room where I had hidden.  They searched every corner, under the bed and in the cabinets.  They didn’t look under the pile of cloth where I was hidden, because the window was open and they thought I had escaped. The men left, but not before threatening the Gugala family, that if they told anyone what had happened, they would return and shoot them too.

Thus ended the one night I spent in Zelechow  after the liberation.  Out of the six Jews in the house, only three remained alive.  One woman who received a bullet, was slightly wounded and feigned death.  When the bandits chased after us, the wounded woman got up and ran away.  One man ran away at the beginning, and the third was myself.

My beloved girlfriend, who lived through Hitler’s hell with me and was murdered at the threshold of a new life, was buried together with the other victims of that night in Zelechow, the town where she had never been before, and of which she had never heard.

I was in shock and bleeding profusely from two holes, one where the bullet had entered and the other where it came out. Gugala’s daughter gave me some rags to bind the wounds, and I stayed in my hiding place, terrified, till morning. We were then taken to the house a Jewish family. The handful of Jews remaining in Zelechow now decided to leave that day. First, Victor Yontef, who had survived the war in the forests around Zelechow, took the bodies and buried them. We then went back by buggy to Sobolov.

When the train arrived, it was, as all trains in that immediate post-war time, totally packed. There were even people on the roofs. I didn’t have a hope of getting into a carriage, so I got onto the step with my healthy leg and clung to a bar on the door with all my strength. I was faint, but nothing would have made me lessen my grip, as the train took off. After a while, I heard two young men talking in Yiddish. They were sitting on a platform between two carriages and were quite close to me. I called out in Yiddish, “Help me, I’m wounded.” At the next station, they both jumped down and took me onto the platform with them. They were shocked to see the bloody mess my leg was in. They gave me a drink of water and tried to clean the wound as best they could. They rebound it with fresh cloth, and managed to stem the bleeding. Best of all, they took care of me till we got to Lodz. None of us had tickets, so they led me off the train away from the station and did not leave my side, till they delivered me to my cousins’ address.

It was a shopfront, I opened the door and there was Yossel at a bench, cutting leather for uppers. He looked up and said politely in Polish, “ Yes, can I help you?” I stood there, pale, emaciated, with just a little bit of fuzz on my shaven head and with blood soaked clothes. I said, “Yossel, don’t you recognize me? I’m Chana.”  We fell into each other’s arms, weeping. I couldn’t stop the tears for a long time.

He stroked my head and said, “You don’t have to be afraid any more. I will look after you.”

And he did.

Yossel became my husband and we were so close, people frequently called us
Chanayossel without separating the names. Together, we, the remnants of our families, built a new life in Australia. We had a daughter we named after Yossel’s bubba (Sarah), and a son who bears my father’s name (Benjamin). We were also blessed with 3 grandchildren and 2 great-grandchildren.

Yossel kept his promise for fifty-eight years till he died eight months ago. I am lost without him.

Soon there won’t be any of us left to bear witness to the Holocaust, therefore as much as it pains us we have to tell our stories for the future generations to fully understand the events of the Holocaust. The story ‘Passover in Dachau’, does not intend to tell story of the horrors we endured, but of the Jewish faith, spirit and strength that helped us survive two thousand years of persecution and prejudice. It tells of a man who made a difference even while we dwelt in the hell of the Nazis.

One of the touchy subjects among the Jewish prisoners at Nazi  concentration camps was the role of G-D at these camps of horror. Some unable  to believe that G-D would allow such gruesome deeds to take place, simply lost their  faith in him. But some never lost their faith no matter what they witnessed  and one of them I will never forget was the man we called “ Rebbe”. I never  found out his real name but his absolute belief and devotion to G-D made us  wonder.
 
Many thought that the “Rebbe” was not all there. Still, whatever we  thought of him, he gave us a spark of hope when we needed it most. At that  time it was obvious that the Nazis were losing the war, but we were at the end  of our endurance mentally and physically. To survive we needed spiritual  strength. The “Rebbe” kept on reminding us that the Jewish people survived two  thousand years of endless persecutions while most of our old enemies  disappeared. And now we were witnessing the defeat of our arch enemy, Hitler  and his Nazis. Somehow we had to find the strength to survive and see their  downfall.
 
This Pesach story is dedicated to the “Rebbe” who together with many of  us who attended his Pesach Seder and  survived the Holocaust.  Soon  after the liberation  most of the survivors left for Israel, but some  went to the States and many other countries. I never found out what happened  to the “Rebbe” and I never saw him again. But whenever Purim and Pesach comes  around  I always remember his “Purim Spiel” and the “Seder in  Dachau.”
 
Sixty-five  years ago, towards the end of March, 1945,  we held a Passover Seder in Dachau, the notorious Nazi concentration camp. We  were half starved, barely able to walk, yet we kept the tradition of the  Passover Sedder held by the “Rebbe”, most of us considered  “meshuge”.
 
Of course, it was not a real Seder; it was just a symbolic Seder, yet  those of us who participated in it felt a tremendous spiritual uplift that  gave us enough strength to continue.
 
‘Passover in Dachau,’ is not a story of the horrors we endured, but a  story of Jewish faith, spirit, strength and stamina that has helped us survive  two thousand years of persecution and prejudice.  It tells of a man who  made a difference even while we dwelt in the Nazi hell. We only knew him as  the “Rebbe” and that he came to us from the Lodz Ghetto, through  Auschwitz.
 
Soon there won’t be any of us left to bear witness to the murder of the  Jews of Europe; therefore, as painful as it may be, we have to tell our  stories so that future generations will fully understand the events of the  Holocaust.
  
Six million is a big number.  I have heard many say that it is a  number beyond comprehension.  It is only through our individual stories  that the emotional impact of the Holocaust can be realized. It is our duty to  bear witness. And that is what this story is all about.
 

Before the Nazi era, the town was known as an artists’ town where some  well-known musicians, poets and artists lived. I was told that Kurt Weil, the  famous composer lived there before he was forced to flee for his life to the  United States.
 
Who could have imagined that in the midst of all that beauty the Nazis  would establish a concentration camp, part of the satellite camps of the  notorious concentration camp of Dachau? To us it was known as Lager X,  Utting.
  
I  was seventeen years old, when in July 1944, they brought me here from  Lithuania. I was to become a Jewish slave laborer in a factory that produced  concrete parts for the nearby site of a huge underground factory which was  under construction. The factory was to produce the fighter jet plane known as  the Messerschmit M-62. Many of my friends worked and died on that construction  site, which was known as “Moll” , or Landsberg Lager !. managed to keep a  small diary while we were there.
 
 

 
It was a warm day in August, with a cool breeze blowing from a nearby  lake. Later we found out that the name of the lake was Amersee, and the camp  they took us to was near a small town called Utting.
 
As we marched down the small roads and byways of this beautiful  countryside, we almost forgot that we were Jewish prisoners condemned to  extermination by Hitler.
   
“How could so much evil dwell amidst so much beauty?” I  wondered.
   
I  tried to imagine that I was a tourist, and for lunch Father would take me to a  fancy hotel where we would eat our fill of the most gorgeous meats, poultry,  baked potatoes, and white rolls. Soft, round white rolls that would melt in my  mouth. These images only depressed me and I thought I’d better keep my wits  about me.  As usual, I kept my eyes open for opportunities in this new  place. I knew that the first day in the camp was crucial to getting work where  one could survive and what is more important, with an opportunity to steal  food. After a short walk, we were put on a local train that brought us to our  destination, Lager X, an outer camp of Dachau. Here, we were received by SS  guards who didn’t seem as threatening as the ones in Stutthof. They led us  into a wooded area, in the middle of which was a large clearing. In the  clearing, we saw the camp; our final destination until the end of the war, for  better or for worse.
 
I  will skip eight months of the horrors, beatings and starvation we suffered in  that camp. Many of us died. My book, ‘Light One Candle,’ published in English,  German and Japanese, gives a full description of those events.
 
I  will concentrate on a part of my story that could not be included in the  published manuscript due to limited space. This story is about Passover in  Lager X.
 
 

 
Around the middle of March, 1945, we suddenly saw small planes with  blue stars on their wings flying low over our heads. They machine-gunned  everything that was moving. The German guards and foremen scattered in all  directions.
   
We stood as if we were petrified, gaping at them. We didn’t care if  they hit us as long as they killed some of our torturers. The planes were a  total and exciting surprise to us.
 
During the previous eight-months, we had only seen huge bombers flying  high in the sky, probably towards Munich and other German towns.
 
Gans, the ‘Strategist,‘ said that these were American fighter planes,  and the fact that we saw them for the first time in our area, flying so low,  indicated that the front was coming nearer.
 
That same evening the “Rebbe” came to see us in our barracks. He was  the same weird man from Lodz who staged the Purim party and almost got us  killed by the guards.
 
He knew all the prayers by heart and urged us to keep the  faith.
 
He had grown a bit thinner since the escapade of the ‘Purim’ party, but  he seemed in better shape than most of the Jews who arrived from the Lodz  Ghetto. (I described that party last year, as Purim in  Dachau.)
 
 Burgin, the head capo, gave him the job of burying the dead and he had  plenty to do, as more and more of our prisoners died. It was a dreadful job,  but it was better than carrying hundred pound cement sacks on your back. He  called himself ”Hevre Kadishe” and was known to  say Kadish after every burial, which earned him our  respect.
 
Everyone considered him weird, but he was a kind man and always smiled,  which was another reason why we thought he was crazy.
 
We were sitting around the small round iron stove trying to warm  ourselves when he came into our barracks. He smelled of the dead.  We  were well acquainted with that smell.
 
“Yidden, peisach kumt in zwelf tug un men darf baken  matze,”
 
(“Jews, Passover is coming in twelve days and we have to bake  matzos.”)
 
He spoke Yiddish differently from our Lithuanian Yiddish and sometimes  it was difficult to understand him.
 
He also had the strange habit of calling us “Yidden” and never  called us by our names.

We just looked at him in astonishment.
 
In the last few weeks, our situation had deteriorated. The watery soup  we got for lunch became even more watery, and the daily portion of bread  became thin and quite often green with mold.
 
The German overseers showed increasing nervousness and were even  crueler, beating us at every opportunity. We knew that the Allies were  somewhere in Germany, but whether we could hold out till they reached our camp  was doubtful.
 
After the incident we had with the ”Rebbe” on Purim, we weren’t too  surprised that he would come up with another loony idea.
 
Then he gave us a sly look and wagged his forefinger at us.
 
”Let me tell you, Yidden, we shall soon celebrate not only ‘Itzios  Mizraim’ but also ‘Iztios Deitschland.’” He said this and gave a short high  pitched laugh.
 
(“We shall soon celebrate not only the exodus from Egypt, but also the  exodus from Germany.”)
 
”From your mouth to G-d’s ears, but how on earth do you know that  Pesach is in twelve days?” my father asked in surprise.
 
“I know because it is four days before the end of March!” he said  triumphantly.
 
That didn’t any make more sense to us than his precise knowledge of  Jewish holidays. We hardly knew what day it was, let alone the days of our  holidays.
 
“And to where is this exodus taking us from Germany? Shall we cross the  Red Sea to the promised land?” Haim asked with derision.
 
“No, we shall cross the Mediterranean to the promised land, young  man,” he answered quietly.
 
We looked at each other. Perhaps his ideas were not so crazy. We all  thought that if we would survive this purgatory, the only place left for us to  go was Palestine.
 
“So, how about some flour? I will bake the matzos and make the proper  blessing to make it kosher, “ he said, rubbing his hands.
 
“For G-d’s sake, Rebbe, where do you expect us to get flour? We are all  starving here and you come with your crazy ideas,“ one of the prisoners said  in an irritated voice.
 
“Look, if you want to have an exodus from Germany, we must have  matzos,”
 
he said, stubbornly. “Or there won’t be an exodus from Germany,” he  said, sticking up his chin.
 
Then he suddenly he pointed his finger at me and said, ”You work in the  German OT kitchen, you bring us the flour!”
 
I looked at him in astonishment.
 
My father got really mad at him.
 
“You want my son to risk his life to steal flour from the Germans for your Matzohs?” Father shouted at him.
 
“For our Matzohs,” the “Rebbe” said calmly. “He is the only one who can get the flour.”
 
I thought about the cellar in the German kitchen, where they kept the  foodstuffs.
 
It was not only under lock and key, but the cook was always hanging  around. There was no way I could get into the cellar, and if I did, I  certainly wouldn’t bother with flour, but would steal food to help us  survive.
 
The “Rebbe,” as if sensing my thoughts, held up his hand.
 
“I have something that may help you get the flour,” he said, and took  out from under his armpit a small rag tied with a string.
 
He carefully untied it and took out two objects. He put it on his left  palm and stuck it under my nose. I recoiled in disgust. They were two foul  smelling teeth with some gold attached to them.
 
We were all stunned. We all knew that he buried the dead. When he saw  our looks he smiled.
 
“It’s not what you think. I didn’t pull any teeth from the dead. It was  Zundel who gave it to me before he died. I promised him that I would barter  the teeth for
 
flour to make matzohs for the Passover Seder.  You wouldn’t want  me to go back on the promise I made to a dying Jew?” he said looking at us  accusingly.
 
“Don’t you understand?  Pesach is the holiday of our freedom from  slavery, aren’t we slaves here for the Nazis? You know very well that this may  be our salvation and the gate for our exodus from Germany.”
 
To this day, I don’t know how I agreed to the Rebbe’s crazy idea.  Religion was the last thing on our minds under the circumstances. To some  extent, we blamed G-d for what happened to the Jewish people in Europe.
 
There was one sentence in the Haggadah that especially angered  us:
 
“In every generation our enemies rise to destroy us, but the  Almighty always saves us from their hands.”
 
 He certainly was not saving any of us, including the millions of  children who were murdered. Yet it was our belief and tradition that had  brought us that far.
  
The next day, I took the gold teeth with me to the German kitchen where  I was working. The cook was a mean old German who always cursed us and would  beat us with his iron soup ladle. But he never really hurt us.
   
How should I approach him? What should I tell him? “Here are two gold  teeth extracted from a dead Jew. Can you please give me some flour to bake  some matzohs for Passover?” He would probably deliver me to the SS guards to  be shot.
 
The more I thought about it, the crazier it sounded. Finally, I decided  to abandon the idea.
 
 When the cook saw me he called me over.
   
“You can start cleaning the mess hall and then the wash  room.”
 
His tone of voice was much milder than before. I felt a difference in  his voice. While he spoke to me, he kept looking at the sky. Sure enough, a  squadron of American fighter planes came roaring over the roofs. I saw them  wheeling down towards the railroad tracks and heard their cannons rattling,  followed by loud explosions. They must have been attacking some nearby target.  It was an incredible sight and made my heart leap with joy.
 
The cook almost fainted with fright and ran down to the cellar where  the the food was stored. I ran after him, but he began shouting, “ Get out!  Get out! Get out! I saw you gloating when the planes came over.” He screamed  at me. I quickly got out of the cellar hoping he would calm down after a  while. I had made a huge mistake by making him angry.
 
I  called out to him and begged his forgiveness. “I was just frightened of the  attacking planes, please forgive me,” I said.
 
We looked at each other. I could see in his eyes that he was thinking  the same thing as I, “Soon the Americans will be here.”
 
It was then that I suddenly blurted out the story of the Passover  holiday and that we needed flour to bake matzohs. It was as if the “Rebbe” had  taken control of my tongue and made me say these things.
  
Then I slowly opened the rag the “Rebbe” had given me and extended the  two gold teeth to him.
   
For a while he looked at me as if I had gone mad. Then I saw some  recognition in his eyes.
   
“Is that the holiday Passover when our Lord Jesus sat with his  disciples and ate the unleavened bread at the last supper? Is the unleavened  bread what you Jews call matzohs?“
 
 It was my turn to be surprised. I knew that he was an observant  Catholic by the cross he wore around his neck, and I saw him cross himself  several times when the American planes came over.
  
This was an entirely unexpected turn of events.
 
As children we were taught that Jesus was always connected with trouble  for the Jewish people. But if Jesus helped us get the flour, it was all right  with me.
 
I was beginning to be hopeful. He looked at the gold teeth for a while but  didn’t take them.
  
He didn’t say anything more and told me to clean up the mess hall and  the wash room.
  
Before we went back to the camp, he came out of the kitchen and gave me  a small paper bag full of white flour.
 
“I think our Lord would want you to have matzohs for your holiday.  After all he was one your people. Sometimes we forget that.”
   
I don’t know why he gave me the flour, perhaps be thought that I would say a  good word for him when the Americans came, or perhaps he did it out of  religious convictions. The fact was that he didn’t take the gold  teeth.
   
Whatever the reasons, the “Rebbe” had his flour and, on the small iron  stove, he baked us little white wafers that reminded us vaguely of matzohs.  They had small holes in them and were slightly burned.
   
It was on March 27, 1945, when he brought the  matzohs and declared that the Passover Seder would now begin.
   
“Out of the seven ingredients needed to conduct the Seder, we now only  have two. Matzohs and Marror , but the Almighty will understand.”
   
“’Rebbe’, where is the Marror (bitter herb) that you mentioned? ”   we asked him.
   
He looked at us. “Our lives in this  camp is the Marror; it is  bitter enough.”
   
He then divided the matzah, gave each of us a piece and made us say the  blessings.
   
“Since you are the youngest of the group, you will ask the four ‘shales  mah nishtana,’( the four questions).” To my surprise, I remembered most of  them and sing-songed the questions with the help of the others. We did not  hide the ‘Afikomen’ because there were no children in our camp. The children  had all been sent to Auschwitz to be gassed.
   
We had to go to work the next day and we were hungry and dead tired,  but we joined the “Rebbe” in holding some kind of a Seder. He remembered most  of the  Haggadah by heart; so did my father who had studied in a yeshiva  when he was a boy.
 
Some of the other participants also knew parts of the Haggadah. Some of  us joined in saying the blessings, but we were all asleep before the “Rebbe”  finished chanting the Haggadah.
   
I vaguely remembered him singing Chad Gad Yah.
   
At the end, he made a short prayer in Yiddish:
  
“Please, forgive us, Oh Master of the Universe, for conducting such a  poor Passover Seder service. But it was the best we could do, and please  deliver us, Oh Lord, from the hands of our enemies who rose up, once again, in  this generation to destroy us.”
 
The Rrebbe’s seder had double significance for us:  We all felt as  if we were there at “Itzias Miszraim,” and we believed the “Rebbe” that we  would also be at “Itzias Daitschland.”
  
He woke me before he left and told me, “you deserve a special blessing  for bringing the flour for the Matzohs. You will be among those who will soon  celebrate the exodus from Germany to the Holy Land.”
   
I  didn’t tell him about my conversation with the cook and that Jesus had  something to do with getting us the flour for the Matzohs. I doubt that he  would have appreciated the help of Jesus.
   
About a month later, the war was over and we were rescued by the US  army. It was May 2, 1945.
   
The “Rebbe” kept his promise and most of us who participated in  that Seder in Dachau, survived the Holocaust and left for Israel, fulfilling  his prophecy  of
 
“Itzios Daitschland, The Exodus from Germany.”
     
Solly Ganor
Ramat Hasharon,  Israel
March 27, 2010