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By Morris Wyszogrod

During this memoir Morris Wyszogrod recounts his reports from the time of the Nazi invasion of Poland to the liberation of the Theresienstadt focus camp in 1945. He describes intimately the time he spent within the Warsaw Ghetto; his paintings as an artist for varied Luftwaffe body of workers on the Warsaw army airport; his reports on the Budzyn focus camp, the place he used to be assigned to accessorize the dwelling quarters of the SS and to provide drawings at an orgiastic Oktoberfest; his elimination to Plaszow, the place he used to be positioned to paintings digging up mass graves and burning the our bodies to get rid of the facts of Nazi battle crimes; his witnessing of the firebombing of Dresden in February 1945; and his next liberation at Theresienstadt by way of the purple military in may possibly 1945. simply as an artist may possibly sign in what he or she sees opposed to a delicate visible and ethical template, so Wyszogrod doubly registered what he observed and felt, either in his drawings and in his thoughts.

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I remember my parents discussing with Roman Szulc, chief timpanist for the Warsaw Philharmonic (my mother made drumsticks for him), his invitation from the great conductor Sergei Koussevitsky to join the Boston Philharmonic in 1935. My father supported his decision to go, and we all went to the Warsaw Central Railway Station to see him off with his family. My mother saw to it that there was always something to eat when people dropped in. There was often a big pot of potato or lima bean soupmy favoritewith bits of flour fried in chicken fat thrown into it.

In its faint light, the images moved as if in a devilish dance. My father stood up, raised a glass of water, and made kiddush over it. I thought of the hungry who, by tradition, are invited to share this meal. But the plates remained emptythere was no matzo. Under these severe conditions, the holiday took on ominous overtones. From minute to minute, it became more anxious and more depressing. I helped my mother serve the meal: water boiled with coarse black salt and some rotten cabbage leaves, whatever we'd been able to find.

I remember my parents discussing with Roman Szulc, chief timpanist for the Warsaw Philharmonic (my mother made drumsticks for him), his invitation from the great conductor Sergei Koussevitsky to join the Boston Philharmonic in 1935. My father supported his decision to go, and we all went to the Warsaw Central Railway Station to see him off with his family. My mother saw to it that there was always something to eat when people dropped in. There was often a big pot of potato or lima bean soupmy favoritewith bits of flour fried in chicken fat thrown into it.

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