67th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz

Remarks by Pnina Segal, Auschwitz survivor, camp no. A-15515

I am standing here today in front of such an honorable audience and I am so touched by the respect I have been given to represent my country, Israel, at the ceremony for the International Holocaust Remembrance Day. I am Pnina Segal–Kałuszyner. I was freed from Birkenau on January 27, 1945, a tough winter of minus 25 Celcius degrees. I was a young six-year-old girl that survived through all that horror and I am here today to stand proudly in front of you and tell my story.

I was born in Łódź to a very respectful and wealthy family, my father had a textile factory there, but the war started and I was only one year old. My mother had some family in the neighboring town of Piotrków Trybunalski, so my parents decided to send me with one of my father’s workers there to my mother’s family. My mother, Miriam Kałuszyner–Landau, and my father, Max, joined me a few days later. Everything was normal until we were put in the ghetto. My father got ill with typhus and was put in a special hospital for people with this disease. Germans were very worried about typhus getting spread. I don’t know what happened to my father. My mother never talked about it. I don’t know whether he was killed or died. I only know him from three photographs that remained.

We lived in Piotrków with my aunt Sala, my mother’s sister, and her daughter Janeczka, who was my age. My grandparents, Hannah and Asher, and my uncle Jurek were transferred to Treblinka in one of the first transports. We moved to a house in Jerozolimska 12, and there, during random checks children were taken up to the attic and instructed to cover their mouths with a pillow not to be discovered. My mother started to work in a shoe factory in the town center. Every morning she went to work and I stayed with my aunt Sala and Janeczka at home.

In winter of 1942 my mother was taken from the factory to the Skarżysko-Kamienna labor camp that manufactured gun bullets. As a young girl, only 3 years old, I couldn’t understand what it meant that, “Mommy was taken…,” but on that day we were separated for three and a half years. My aunt Sala, Janeczka, and I were transferred to the Bliżyn labor camp in the first transport of 1943. During roll-calls my aunt Sala would tear out some of panels in the floor of the barrack and hid us under the floor. We stayed there until soldiers were gone. At the end of July 1944 soldiers transferred us in a cattle car to Birkenau. Single images that are left in my mind are of the overcrowded train where we stood in the dark. A small bucket was placed in the corner as a toilet. When the train arrived at the Birkenau ramp, the doors were opened.

Outside, I remember, the Nazi soldiers were standing in their leather boots, big black dogs at their sides, very loud music was playing, strong smell of burning was in the air, and the sky was black from smoke. We were pushed outside towards the labor camp, because people from my train went through the selection before we arrived. That was our luck that they sent us to life and not to death, the crematorium. They took us to a hall where they cut our hair, dressed us in striped uniforms and burnt numbers on our hands. At that moment I went from being called Lusia to A-15515. I remember that moment very well. They sent us into barracks. All the time, my aunt Sala took care of us.
Other image that I remember is a metal bowl I held while waiting for a soup, by then I already knew to wait for the bottom of the pot, so I would have more potato peels than water. Also I used to look for the end of the bread, a heel, because I thought it had more bread in it. I still have this habit today and my family and friends know that the first or last piece of bread goes to me.

Time was passing and Janeczka got sick. The SS noticed that and took her to the crematorium. My aunt Sala ran after her and they were both burnt. I was all alone in the barrack and good women there took care of me.

Winter arrived again and it was one of the coldest and hardest winters. On liberation day it was minus 25 Celcius degrees. Next day, January 28, a young girl from the town of Oświęcim came looking for a “sister” for adoption. Her name was Kazia. She came to the barrack where children were kept. She looked at me and asked if I would like to come with her. I gave her my hand and we walked together to her apartment in the town. Kazia was 17 and I was 6 years old. When we walked through the door, her mother asked, “Where were you?” Kazia answered, “I went to the camp to look for a sister and I found Lusia. Don’t worry mother. She will sleep in my bed and we will share my food.” Kazia gave me a small cross and told me to pray. I asked her, “If I pray, will my mother come back?” and she said, “Yes, she will come back.”

In March that year, my mother started looking for me after she heard that some children survived the war. She felt and believed that she would find me. After a difficult journey, she arrived at Auschwitz. In the Red-Cross office there she was told that her daughter was taken by Kazia Nowak to the town of Oświęcim. She found her way to the town and she went from house to house until she arrived at the Nowak’s apartment. The door opened and my mother stood there, half fainted, when she saw me. She hugged me, kissed me, and asked if I remembered her after all these years. I told her, “Yes, I remember you and I remember your blouse too.” It was a green blouse with white pearl buttons. Kazia was shocked. She was standing on the side. She couldn’t believe that my mother arrived and that we would have to separate. The three of us went back to Łódź and spent two weeks together. Before we left, my mother had our photograph taken as a memento. Separating from Kazia was hard. It lasted 51 years.

I went with my mother to Bergen-Belsen and after a year and a half, in 1947, we moved to live in Israel. In Israel I didn’t want anyone to know what I had gone through. I wanted to be an Israeli like everybody else. I finished high school and graduated from college. I was very active in the youth movement. Nobody knew and I didn’t need to tell anyone about the Holocaust and the number on my hand.

In 1959 I married a wonderful man, Dani Segal. We have three children (Yair, Ravit, and Asaf) and ten grandchildren. My mother kept telling my story and everything I went through to everyone. My children heard my story from her. I didn’t talk about it. I couldn’t.

In 1995, following the reunion of the Holocaust survivors, I decided to tell my story. The first thing I was going to do was to look for Kazia, an angel, that took me out from Birkenau. I found Kazia. We met in February 1996 and since then I have been going with youth delegations to Poland and telling them my story. During these visits students met with Kazia and it was very exciting.

Kazia’s life wasn’t easy. She was a widow and her only son died of the heart attack when he was only 39 years old. She was a faithful catholic and believed that everything that had happened to her was by God’s Will. Three years ago she became very sick and stayed in nuns’ hospital. I used to visit her twice a year and we were very happy to see each other every time we met. She passed away on October 7, 2011. Kazia died on Yom Kippur, the holiest day for the Jewish people. Only the Righteous die on Yom Kippur and she is one of them.
I will continue coming to Poland with youth delegations to the concentration camps and we will always visit block 15 in Auschwitz where there is a photo of Kazia and me.

I would like to thank you all for listening to the story of my life and I will keep telling it for the generations to come.