All But My Life: A Memoir

by Gerda Weissmann Klein

Why? Why did we walk like meek sheep to the slaughterhouse? Why did we not fight back? What had we to lose? Nothing but our lives. Why did we not run away and hide? We might have had a chance to survive. Why did we walk deliberately and obediently into their clutches? I know why. Because we had faith in humanity. Because we did not really think that human beings were capable of committing such crimes.

In the years to come the moon became my loyal friend, my only friend that was free. Each month I counted the days until she returned, and often when she hid behind clouds I thought that she was avoiding the horror on earth.

That was Lotte. I cannot help but want to tell her story, for I might be the only one left in the world who knows it.

My experience has taught me that all of us have a reservoir of untapped strength that comes to the fore at moments of crisis.

A common request I have gotten over the years is to explain how my experiences during the war changed me as a person; and how others I know who endured similar circumstances were changed by their experiences. The conclusion I have reached about myself—and it is probably true for others—is that for the most part, the experience itself did not shape our personalities; it only accentuated them. If, for example, before the war someone was somewhat self-absorbed, then the suffering to which they were subjected resulted in an even greater sense of entitlement. On the other hand, if they were a person more inclined to be grateful for good things that came their way, then having survived the horrors of those years likely resulted in them being very accepting, without complaint, of life’s vicissitudes thereafter; since nothing could possibly be as bad as what they had previously endured. This accentuation of character traits likely carries through to every type of personality along the continuum between those two extremes.