Auschwitz – Necessary Whispers

Faithfulness in the Face of Antisemitism: Covenant, Memory, and Christian Responsibility

By Jill Szoo Wilson

Author’s Note:
This is not an essay about forgiveness. I have written about Eva Mozes Kor, Holocaust survivor and forgiveness advocate, for years because I deeply respect her message. I honor her legacy here while condemning antisemitic violence without qualification and calling Christians to action in the present moment. Nothing in this piece is meant to soften, spiritualize, or diminish the reality of antisemitism today.

Nearly seventy years after the Holocaust, Eva Mozes Kor still looked at the world and saw a painful truth: antisemitism had not disappeared. The lessons of history, no matter how horrific, were not enough to prevent hatred from resurfacing. As a survivor of Auschwitz and a Mengele Twin, she carried both the burden of memory and the wisdom of experience. She often asked a simple but haunting question: What has changed since Auschwitz?

Eva often spoke about how Adolf Hitler rose to power not as an anomaly, but through a series of orchestrated events designed to achieve a singular goal, the extermination of the Jewish people and the establishment of an Aryan-dominated society. Hitler and his regime promoted the belief in Aryan racial superiority, claiming that Germans of “pure” Nordic descent were destined to rule over other groups they labeled as inferior. These ideas, rooted in eugenics and extreme nationalism, fueled policies that targeted Jews, Romani people, disabled individuals, Slavs, and others deemed unfit for their vision of a racially “pure” society. This ideology was systematically enforced through propaganda, education, and legislation, including the Nuremberg Race Laws of 1935.

The Nuremberg Race Laws consisted of two primary statutes:

The Reich Citizenship Law: This law declared that only individuals of German or related blood were eligible to be Reich citizens, effectively revoking Jews’ rights as citizens. It stated: A Reich citizen is a subject of the state who is of German or related blood, and proves by his conduct that he is willing and fit to faithfully serve the German people and Reich. (Source)

The Law for the Protection of German Blood and German Honor: This law prohibited marriages and extramarital relations between Jews and citizens of German or related blood, aiming to preserve the “purity” of German blood. It also forbade Jews from employing German females under 45 years of age in their households. (Source)

Germany, one of the most advanced and cultured societies of its time, fell under the influence of a leader who manipulated public fears and desires, offering promises of restoration and prosperity in exchange for obedience. Step by step, ordinary citizens became participants in a deadly machine, one that required gradual compromises until they found themselves complicit in atrocities. This transformation is hauntingly explored in the book Ordinary Men, which details how average individuals became executioners not out of inherent evil, but by following orders, rationalizing their actions, and failing to resist the system that consumed them.

Eva witnessed this transformation firsthand and spent decades ensuring people understood how easily it could happen again. She often emphasized that Hitler’s rise was not inevitable, nor was it the result of a single event. It was a gradual process, shaped by economic hardship, propaganda, and the willingness of ordinary people to accept small injustices until they became monstrous realities.

Five Factors That Allowed Hitler to Rise to Power

The Holocaust was not an accident of history. It was the result of a carefully constructed plan, built on a foundation of economic despair, propaganda, and the gradual erosion of moral resistance.

Economic Devastation: Germany faced severe unemployment, with rates soaring to 30 percent in the early 1930s. This economic turmoil created fertile ground for extremist ideologies. (encyclopedia.ushmm.org)

Scapegoating the Jews: The Nazi regime capitalized on existing antisemitic sentiments, blaming Jews for Germany’s economic and social woes and uniting the populace against a common, innocent enemy. (encyclopedia.ushmm.org)

Propaganda and Control: Through relentless propaganda, the Nazis dehumanized Jews, portraying them as subversive and dangerous, which facilitated public acceptance of discriminatory laws and actions. (encyclopedia.ushmm.org)

Apathy and Inaction: Many Germans and international observers remained passive or indifferent as antisemitic policies escalated, allowing hatred to fester unchallenged.

The Allure of Power: Hitler’s strategic political maneuvers, including exploiting democratic processes, enabled him to consolidate power and implement his radical agenda.

These historical conditions are not confined to the past. Alarmingly, antisemitism has seen a resurgence in recent years. A 2024 report highlighted a 340 percent increase in global antisemitic incidents compared to 2022. (timesofisrael.com) Furthermore, a 2025 Anti-Defamation League survey revealed that 46 percent of adults worldwide harbor significant antisemitic beliefs. (adl.org)

Despite comprising a small fraction of the global population, approximately 15 million Jews worldwide, many continue to advocate for oppressed communities, even when it entails personal risk. Eva marveled at this enduring commitment to justice and empathy.

The Ultimate Power: Forgiveness

Eva often said, “Anger is a seed for war, forgiveness is a seed for peace.” To her, forgiveness was never about excusing harm. It was about breaking the cycle of hatred.

Forgiveness does not take place on the battlefield. It is not something that happens in the midst of conflict, nor does it excuse or prevent the necessity of justice. Forgiveness comes later, when the dust has settled and when the victim is free to reclaim their own power. It is not about surrender. It is about refusing to let the past dictate the future.

While Eva never shied away from confronting the past, she was equally passionate about what came next. She believed that dwelling in anger, no matter how justified, only gave power to those who inflicted harm. “Forgiveness,” she said, “is the only power a victim has to heal, liberate, and reclaim their life.”

Eva was careful to say, “I forgive in my name only.” She never claimed to speak for other survivors, nor did she suggest that forgiveness was a requirement for healing.

Eva Mozes Kor often emphasized this declaration, reflecting both her personal journey and a deep respect for Jewish principles regarding forgiveness. In Jewish tradition, forgiveness, or mechila, is a profound process that hinges on sincere repentance from the wrongdoer. Maimonides, a preeminent Jewish scholar, outlined that true repentance (teshuva) involves the offender’s acknowledgment of wrongdoing, genuine remorse, and a committed effort to rectify the harm caused. Only after these steps is the victim encouraged to offer forgiveness.

This framework underscores that forgiveness cannot be granted on behalf of others. It is an intimate act between the victim and the penitent. In the context of the Holocaust, where six million Jews were murdered without any expression of remorse from the perpetrators, the notion of forgiveness becomes even more complex. Jewish law maintains that offenses against an individual require that individual’s forgiveness, making it impossible for survivors to forgive on behalf of those who perished. (utppublishing.com)

Eva’s careful articulation, that her forgiveness was solely her own, respected this principle. She did not presume to speak for other survivors or the deceased. Her act of forgiveness was a personal liberation, a means to free herself from the grip of anger and victimhood, without contravening the collective memory and enduring grief of the Jewish community. (candlesholocaustmuseum.org)

This distinction highlights the delicate balance between individual healing and communal responsibility. While Eva chose forgiveness as her path to peace, she acknowledged that such a choice is deeply personal and may not be appropriate or possible for others, especially when traditional avenues for repentance and atonement are absent.

Forgiveness, in her view, had nothing to do with the perpetrator. It did not condone, excuse, or endorse their actions. It was not about justice. It was about reclaiming control over one’s own life. “I call forgiveness the best revenge,” Eva said, “because once we forgive, the perpetrator no longer has any power over us, and our forgiveness overrides all their evil deeds.”

This idea was radical and not always welcomed. Many survivors could not accept it, and for good reason. Even outside the context of the Holocaust, many struggle with the idea that forgiveness does not mean forgetting or allowing injustice to continue. For Eva, forgiveness was deeply personal. It was about reclaiming power, not about absolving the guilty. But within Jewish tradition, memory itself is sacred: to remember is to bear witness, to demand justice, and to ensure that history does not repeat itself.

Am Yisrael Chai: The People of Israel Live

Throughout history, the Jewish people have faced oppression, displacement, and genocide, yet they have endured. The phrase Am Yisrael Chai, meaning “The People of Israel Live,” is more than just words. It is a declaration of survival, resilience, and hope. It is an anthem of defiance against those who have sought to erase Jewish existence and a testament to the enduring strength of a people who refuse to be defined by their suffering.

This phrase has been spoken in times of both devastation and triumph. During the Holocaust, Jews whispered it in ghettos and concentration camps, affirming that even in the darkest of times, their spirit remained unbroken. In the aftermath of World War II, it became a rallying cry for survivors who rebuilt their lives, many of whom found refuge in the newly established State of Israel in 1948.

Today, Am Yisrael Chai continues to hold deep significance. It is proclaimed at Holocaust memorials, sung in celebrations, and carried forward as a reminder that survival is not just about existing. It is about thriving, growing, and refusing to let history repeat itself. In the face of rising antisemitism, the phrase remains an unshakable affirmation that the Jewish people will continue to live, to contribute, and to stand up for justice, not only for themselves but for all who face oppression.

Remembering is an act of justice. It ensures that the past is neither erased nor repeated. Forgiveness, when chosen, does not diminish remembrance. It follows it. It does not mean forgetting, nor does it replace accountability. Instead, it allows individuals to reclaim the power to shape their own future, free from the weight of bitterness.

We’re on the Battlefield Again

We are on the battlefield again.

Now is the time to fight back. Antisemitism did not end with the Holocaust. It did not disappear with memory or education or vows of “never again.” It has returned openly and violently, and it is targeting Jewish people simply for existing. This is not abstract. It is not theoretical. It is happening now. Those of us who are not Jewish do not get to watch from the sidelines. I serve the God of Israel, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and I will stand with my Jewish brothers and sisters until the bitter end, or as long as God allows breath in my body. Silence is no longer neutral. To remain quiet is to abandon them on the battlefield.

Recent Antisemitic Attacks (2023–2025)

Below is a concise, verifiable list of documented incidents illustrating the resurgence of antisemitic violence and hate in recent years:

• Bondi Beach Hanukkah Shooting (Dec 14, 2025):
Gunmen opened fire during a Jewish “Chanukah by the Sea” event in Sydney, Australia, killing at least 11 and injuring dozens in what officials condemned as an antisemitic terrorist attack targeting Jews during a holiday celebration. (AP News)

• Timeline of Australian Antisemitic Incidents (2023–2025):
Jewish communities in Australia faced multiple threats including synagogue arsons, graffiti, and escalating antisemitic violence leading up to the Bondi incident. (The Forward)

• Manchester Synagogue Attack (Oct 2, 2025):
A vehicle and stabbing attack at the Heaton Park Hebrew Congregation in Manchester, England, resulted in three deaths and several injuries, confirmed by police as a terrorist targeting of Jews. (Wikipedia)

• Antisemitism Surge Worldwide (Post–Oct 7, 2023):
Global reports documented thousands of antisemitic incidents worldwide, including threats, harassment, and violent attacks in many countries, since the escalation of the Gaza conflict. (Combat Antisemitism Movement)

• Synagogue and Community Vandalism (2023–2024):
Multiple bomb threats, arson, and intimidation against synagogues were reported in Australia and elsewhere, part of a broader pattern of anti-Jewish hate following geopolitical tensions. (Wikipedia)

• Antisemitic Incidents in the UK (2023–2024):
The Community Security Trust documented thousands of antisemitic incidents in the UK, marking sustained high levels of anti-Jewish hate in recent years. (CST)

• Antisemitic Acts in the U.S. (2024):
The Anti-Defamation League’s audit reported record-high antisemitic incidents in the U.S., including harassment, threats, and violent acts occurring across all 50 states. (Congress.gov)

• Berlin Holocaust Memorial Stabbing (Feb 21, 2025):
A man attacked a person at the Holocaust Memorial in Berlin with a knife, injuring the victim in an incident with an antisemitic motive, according to police and press reporting. (Wikipedia)

Christians, What Will You Do?

For Christians, the connection between the God of Israel and the Christian faith is not symbolic, philosophical, or historical alone. It is covenantal and continuous. The God Christians worship is the same God who revealed Himself to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, who said, “I will establish my covenant between me and you and your offspring after you throughout their generations for an everlasting covenant” (Genesis 17:7). Scripture never records that covenant being revoked.

As Joel Richardson, a Christian author, Bible teacher, and filmmaker whose work focuses on biblical prophecy and God’s enduring covenant with Israel, has taught repeatedly, Christianity does not represent a departure from Israel’s story but its unfolding. The New Testament itself insists on this continuity. Paul writes that Gentile believers are not the root but the branches, grafted into a tree they did not plant, sustained by promises they did not originate (Romans 11:17–18). The Church, according to Scripture, does not replace Israel. It depends on her.

John Harrigan, a Christian writer and filmmaker who has examined the theological roots of Christian antisemitism, including through the documentary Covenant and Controversy, has argued that Christian antisemitism is not merely moral failure but theological collapse. Scripture bears this out. To sever Jesus from His Jewish identity is to sever Him from His genealogy, His Scriptures, and His covenantal mission. Jesus did not erase Israel’s story. He entered it. “Salvation is from the Jews,” He said plainly (John 4:22). The apostles did not preach a new God, but the fulfillment of what had already been spoken “by the mouth of all the prophets” (Acts 3:18).

Christianity does not make sense apart from Israel. The Messiah Christians proclaim was Jewish. The Scriptures they read were entrusted first to Jewish hands (Romans 3:2). The covenant they appeal to was never revoked. Paul is unequivocal: “The gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable” (Romans 11:29). Any theology that distances itself from Jewish suffering, or treats the Jewish people as spiritually obsolete, stands in direct contradiction to the very text it claims to honor.

This is why the present moment is vital. Scripture does not allow Christians to retreat into abstraction when the people of Israel are targeted. The call is older and clearer than modern politics: “I will bless those who bless you, and whoever curses you I will curse” (Genesis 12:3). Silence, in this light, is not neutrality. It is a theological choice.

Standing with the Jewish people is faithfulness to the God Christians claim to serve. It is obedience to Scripture. The God who keeps covenant does not abandon His people, and those who bear His name are called to stand with them.

So the question is no longer theoretical.

Where do you stand?

Danger sign in Auschwitz — I took this photo in Auschwitz in 2013.

Block 10 in Auschwitz

By Jill Szoo Wilson

At the end of our first day in Auschwitz I, after our hour-long bus ride back to the safety of our hotel, after a nourishing dinner shared with friends, after showers and moments of silence and feeling the safety of “the group” wrap around us like a blanket that protects not from cold but fright, we spoke. We questioned. We looked into one another’s eyes for answers that no one had—in this way, there were long stretches of time, like a ticking clock, during which the windows of the souls sharing this journey reflected both confusion and comfort back and forth. Back and forth.

During a discussion in the hotel lobby on this particular night, I felt a shift in our collective journey. At the beginning of the trip, we all understood the events of the Holocaust, some in more detail than others, and we knew the basic story that unfolded under the trees and sky, and over the dirt through which we were treading. We had seen Schindler’s List, read books carefully penned by survivors, poured over documentaries and songs and poetry . . . even with our individual knowledge and experience acting as tent poles to our individual decisions to travel to this place, there was one thing we could have never fully anticipated: Auschwitz I looks like an idyllic place to be and there is something terrifying about that. The beauty of the camp is more reminiscent of a college campus neatly organized for the sharing of ideas than for the ripping apart of lives. It’s like a lake whose surface grabs hold of the sun in tiny mirrors of brilliant warmth but swarms with leeches in the darkness below. The hypocrisy that exists between the visual stimulus and the cognitive understanding begs the question: What other places look perfect but are not? Can we ever really know what lies behind windows, doors and walls?

While all the buildings in Auschwitz I that are open to the public have been renovated and turned into memorial museums dedicated to different groups of victims, aspects of the Holocaust and exhibits that make connections between the past and the present, there is one building through which we walked that had not been touched for almost 70 years: Block 10. Even as I type those words, my breath changes. There is heaviness in my chest that isn’t dropped there merely by the memories of the building itself but also by the disconcerting and shadowy questions that pressed my understanding against its walls, like thumb tacks of fear, bewilderment and the kind of silence that is erected by the words, “If you tell anyone, I will kill your family.” The public is not welcome into this building as a means of respecting the lives that were lost there. Because we were with Eva, we were given entrance into this building, much like a cemetery, and we all tripped over the invisible headstones that filled the space where air would otherwise reside. Only 10 of us were allowed to enter the building at a time.

Block 10 is the building in which physical experiments and autopsies were performed. Eva and her sister Miriam were made to walk from Birkenau to Auschwitz I several times a week, no matter what the weather, knowing the physical scrutiny that awaited them.

Before I go on, I feel the need to explain that this particular blog has been the most difficult for me to compose. I have gone through so many starts and stops in trying to describe Block 10 that the place itself is growing larger in my mind as I fight the discomfort with which writing about it has plagued me. I admit this to you, my reader, not as a means of justifying any inadequacies in my descriptions but as an admission of how the mere topic is one from which I want to run. I want to stop writing, again. Alas, I am going to lean into the discomfort and shine a light on the darkness I witnessed there.

Walking into block 10 was like walking into a crowd of spectators circled around a little girl who had fallen from the top of a Ferris-wheel to her death on a dirty carnival ground. Picture men with dirty hair who smell of body odor and rancid chewing tobacco; tarnished silver rings bearing the images of skulls; moldy mobile homes filled with dishes heavy laden with crusted leftovers, and pornographic magazines tattered with use. None of this existed inside Block 10 but the atmosphere inside the building reminded me of the transient, restless nature of a traveling carnival. It was unsettled, foul, dark, obscene—and it echoed—those of us who walked through the cavernous space instinctively grew quiet as children trying to hide from an intruder and yet, somehow, our voices reverberated more loudly here than they did anywhere else in the camp.

The windows on one side of Block 10 are all covered with boards—the side of the building that faces the Execution Wall. The Auschwitz guide explained to us that the reason for the boards was to shield the eyes of those inside the building from seeing the fate of those standing on the other side of the glass. “Shielding” in this case was not an act of protection or extending comfort, it was simply a means of trying to avoid a heightened and spontaneous sense of panic. What this implies is that the doctors inside the building exacted control over their subjects in as much as they controlled their bodies, but they could not control their minds, their imaginations. For a subject to sit still while her eyes were being propped open by two pieces of steel was to control her by insinuating that her cooperation might keep her alive inside this makeshift doctor’s office—to let her shift her focus to the blatant executions 5 feet from her gaze might relinquish her motivation for compliance altogether. These boards that once shielded the eyes of those whose bodies were being used for experiments now serve to cast an eerie shadow on rooms that would be dark in the midst of a million candles lit in memorial to the lives that were lost there.

The hallways and each of the rooms have been stripped of the tables and chairs that once held prisoners there. Emptied except for one remaining table that sat, seemingly innocently at the end of one room. This table was used to conduct autopsies. The only other specific items existing in the space was a small windowless square room, about 7×7 feet, in which there was a concrete shower and what seemed to be a broken pipe hanging from the ceiling, and there were a series of drawings on the walls in two of the rooms. The first drawing I noticed was crassly drawn in the 7×7 room. It was an illustration of a man gawking at a woman’s bare chest. The second drawing I saw was of a small cottage sitting on what seemed to be a serene field. The first drawing made me angry. The second simply confused me. I could imagine the artist of the first but I had no idea whose hand to imagine as I looked at the second. This is to say that looking at the cartoonish pornography in the small square room as I felt the heaviness of evil that still rests upon that building like a fog filled with gnats and poison, the juxtaposition of the torture and the illustrated character made me feel like vomiting. I covered my mouth and squinted my eyes and shook my head and leaned back onto one of the walls . . . until I realized I was leaning back onto one of the walls. Quickly, I jolted my body away from the wall and felt dust particles and flakes of old, dead skin clawing at my back. The person who drew this image of a woman’s bare breasts was immersed in a world of bare breasts and naked bodies that were exposed to him in one of the most vulnerable and unwilling seasons of any number of women’s doomed lives—I was seeing sexual and physical abuse in its most raw form, without actually seeing it. What’s worse is that I could feel it inside that building. Even now, as I type these words my hands shake and my body feels cold. Being this close to the bawdiness of evil is an experience I will never forget. Nor should I.

The second drawing, as I stated above, simply confused me. I didn’t have any emotion left with which to interpret it after having been so repulsed by the first. I couldn’t tell whether it was drawn by a prisoner longing for home or by the same hand that had moments before drawn the naked woman. Either way, I came to hate the drawings on the walls.

There was a period of about 5 five minutes in which I stood by myself in one of the rooms whose windows were boarded. My eyes were wide as I studied the walls, the ceiling, the floor, the lighting fixtures. I noticed there was wallpaper on one side of the room. The presence of wallpaper struck me as laughable, so I laughed. Why in the world would someone find it necessary to cover this wall with wallpaper? Who were they kidding? Why decorate a room in which human souls were being stripped of their dignity and in some cases, their breath? I considered the sinful nature of man and the ways in which we paper over our own ugliness in an effort to either hide it or to numb ourselves from feeling the shame of our own indiscretions. Using the tools of my art as an actress I looked around the room as a child patient, then as an adult patient, then as a nurse, then as a doctor. I allowed the thoughts of each to build themselves in my mind—some of them constructed themselves quickly and with a strength that forced me to close my eyes. Some of these thoughts were quiet and slow—they peaked around the corners of my mind and then slid out the sides of my consciousness like children racing down laundry shoots and into dirty piles of laundry. I was inside the environment and the environment tried to force its way inside of me. The air punched me and the ghosts cried out to me for help and, eventually, the evil of the place began to laugh at me. It was in this moment, when the crescendo of reality drummed loudly in my ears that I stopped feeling the heaviness and I stood up straight, pounded my feet as I moved to the center of the room with the boarded windows and I prayed, “Jesus, I am sorry for what happened here. On behalf of humanity gone completely awry, I am sorry. You are omniscient, omnipresent and omnipotent . . . what did it do to your heart to watch all of this happen?” This was a turning point for me. Before this moment I was asking, “God, how did you let this happen? Why did you let this happen?” I wasn’t angry with God, but the deeper I walked into the horror, into the darkness, the more I looked for the Light. The more I looked for the Light, the darker the darkness became; until I stood in the darkest place in Auschwitz. That is when I tangibly felt the weight of sin and the absolute Love of God. My heart broke for the people who stood, sat, died in that room and I realized that what the Bible says is true, “God is near the broken hearted.” His heart breaks for us.

Inside Block 10, there was no hypocrisy existing between the visual stimulus and the cognitive understanding of what I saw. It was, and remains to this day, a haunted house lined with memories that shout through the revelation of pain; floorboards that creak with dried tears; walls that are shedding their floral patterns under the pressure of shame and anger; windows that shield their eyes from the sun and have lost their ability to see.

© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2024

Jill Szoo Wilson essay about Block 10 in Auschwitz — This is the entrance to Auschwitz I.

Eva Mozes Kor and the Price of Forgiveness

By Jill Szoo Wilson

Eva Mozes Kor often said, “Anger is a seed for war, forgiveness is a seed for peace.” It was more than a slogan. It was a theology, a philosophy, and a daily discipline forged from one of the darkest chapters in human history. As a child imprisoned in Auschwitz and subjected to the medical experiments of Josef Mengele, Eva discovered that survival demanded a defiant hope. Decades later, she chose forgiveness as a form of liberation that offered survivors a path toward healing. Her decision inspired admiration and deep respect, and it also sparked fierce debate about justice, memory, and the boundaries of human compassion. The peace she pursued required extraordinary courage, because every step forward in forgiveness carried a cost.

I recently revisited one of Eva’s emails, a message filled with the kind of raw honesty that few people ever achieve. It was written in her unmistakable, unpolished style: urgent, passionate, and deeply personal. In it, she reflected on the consequences of her decision to forgive a former Nazi doctor, Dr. Hans Münch, and the relentless challenges she faced in opening CANDLES Holocaust Museum.

Reading it now, years after her passing, I am struck by how unyielding she was in the face of criticism, injustice, and personal danger. She did not simply speak about forgiveness. She lived it, even when it cost her dearly.

The Controversy Over Forgiving a Nazi

In 1995, on the 50th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, Eva Mozes Kor did something unthinkable to many: she publicly forgave the Nazis. More than that, she stood beside Dr. Hans Münch, a former SS doctor at Auschwitz, and signed a declaration of forgiveness.

The backlash was immediate and fierce.

Israeli media framed the moment as a betrayal. Footage of Eva walking with Münch was broadcast again and again, without the context behind it.

A major Israeli newspaper published a scathing article, questioning whether any publicity was better than being ignored entirely.

In 1998, journalist Bruno Schirra published an interview with Münch in Der Spiegel, where the former SS doctor made remarks about his time in Auschwitz. The interview triggered a criminal investigation in Germany.

Around the same time, a French radio interview with Münch led to an even more explosive controversy. His derogatory remarks about Roma and Sinti people resulted in criminal charges in France for inciting racial hatred.

The consequences were devastating.

Münch and his family faced public scrutiny, threats, and harassment. In Germany, legal action pushed toward trial despite his diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease.

In a personal email to me, Eva shared that Münch’s home was firebombed three times after his address was published in an article, requiring police protection for his family. I have not been able to verify this in any public record or independent source. It was her own account, offered behind the scenes, reflecting the weight she felt over what was happening to Münch and his loved ones.

Eva was horrified by what was unfolding. She had spent years advocating for justice. Now, she found herself advocating for mercy.

She sent more than 50 letters pleading with authorities to drop the lawsuits against Münch, but the legal proceedings continued.

In 2001, Münch was convicted in France. His sentence was waived due to his age and deteriorating mental state. He passed away later that year.

Eva felt a complicated kind of relief. Münch’s family was finally free from further attacks, and she no longer carried the guilt of contributing to their suffering.

The Fight to Build CANDLES Holocaust Museum

By 1995, Eva Mozes Kor had already reinvented herself many times: Holocaust survivor, public speaker, and founder of CANDLES (Children of Auschwitz Nazi Deadly Lab Experiments Survivors) in 1984. That year, she took on yet another role as a museum founder.

The CANDLES Holocaust Museum and Education Center was an extension of Eva’s mission to teach others about the Holocaust and the experiments performed on her and other Mengele Twins. She wanted to create a permanent place of education, remembrance, and dialogue.

Opening the museum was no small feat.

She found a commercial building in Terre Haute, Indiana, but it was too large and too expensive for the original client she was working with as a realtor. Instead, she made a bold and risky decision to secure financing under her own name, her husband’s name, and a partner’s name to purchase the building herself.

At 61 years old, she signed a $168,000 mortgage, despite her husband’s hesitation.

With limited funds for exhibits, she handmade decorations, including a wall of blue paper strips that read:

“LET US REMOVE ALL HATRED AND PREJUDICE IN THE WORLD, AND LET IT BEGIN WITH ME!”

When the museum opened on April 30, 1995, it quickly became a vital educational resource, drawing teachers, students, and community members eager to learn from Eva’s story.

Then everything changed after 9/11.

Her business partner, who owned a travel agency, struggled to keep her business afloat. The economic downturn was crushing. Eva was forced to buy out her partner’s share of the building at a much higher price, not to expand but simply to save the museum.

By 2002, at age 68, she and her husband took out a $222,000 mortgage to keep CANDLES alive.

The Fire That Could Not Destroy Her Mission

In November 2003, Eva Mozes Kor received a phone call in the middle of the night.

“Mrs. Kor, this is the police department. You need to come to the museum. There is a fire.”

She and her husband rushed to the scene. By the time they arrived, flames were already devouring the building. Firefighters battled the blaze, but it was too late. Everything inside was lost: photographs, historical documents, survivor testimonies, and artifacts.

She stood there watching as the place she had built with her own hands, her own money, and her own pain collapsed into smoldering rubble.

Investigators then found a message spray-painted on an exterior wall in black:

“REMEMBER TIMMY MCVEIGH.”

Timothy McVeigh, the domestic terrorist behind the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing, had been executed in Terre Haute just two years earlier. The implication was chilling. This was an act of hatred and intimidation meant to silence her.

But Eva had spent her entire life surviving the worst of humanity.

The next morning, standing in front of the ashes, she made a decision.

“We will rebuild.”

And she did.

With support from the community, from Holocaust educators, and from donors around the world, CANDLES Holocaust Museum rose from the ruins and reopened in 2005, stronger than before.

You can burn down a building. You cannot destroy a mission.

The Legacy of a Fighter

Most people would have stopped. Most would have looked at the destruction of their museum as a sign to walk away.

But Eva rebuilt.

The email she sent me that recounted this event, full of spelling errors, fragmented sentences, and scattered thoughts, perfectly reflected who she was:

Unpolished, yet utterly real.
Wounded, yet relentless.
Misunderstood, yet unwilling to back down.

Eva Mozes Kor understood something most people do not. Forgiveness does not rewrite the past. It does not fix what was broken. But it allows a person to stop carrying what cannot be undone.

She was never naive. She knew the world was cruel, unjust, indifferent.

She fought anyway.

She did not stop.

What This Means for Us

Eva’s story is not only about forgiveness. It is about resilience in the face of resistance. It is about choosing to build when the world wants to destroy.

Her words still challenge me.

Could I have made the same choices? Would I have kept going? Would I have had the courage to stand alone?

Perhaps that is the lesson she left for us.

Forgiveness is a gift. The fight for something bigger than yourself is what makes history.

© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025

Featured Image photo credit: WFYI Indianapolis, 2021

A Candle at Auschwitz: Lit By a Former Nazi

By Jill Szoo Wilson

The story that follows is told in Holocaust survivor and Mengele Twin Eva Mozes Kor’s voice. This is a story she shared with me as we traveled together from Kraków to Oświęcim, the Polish town where Auschwitz was built. Along the way, I listened as she recounted her journey back to Auschwitz for the 50th anniversary of its liberation. It was a moment in history few people remember, yet one that reveals the depth of her courage, the radical nature of her forgiveness, and the unwavering strength with which she bore witness to the truth.

When Eva told me this story, I could hear in her voice the weight of the moment; the way history and memory collided as she stepped back into Auschwitz, not as a prisoner, but as a witness. She had spent decades making sure the world never forgot what happened there, but on that day, she had something different to say.

Marking 50 Years Since Liberation

On January 27, 1995, the world gathered at Auschwitz to mark the 50th anniversary of its liberation.

Leaders from across the globe stood in front of the infamous barbed wire fences and crumbling barracks, delivering solemn speeches about the horrors of the past in tones that varied from hushed to bellowing. A thread of solemnity wove through the crowd, pulling us into one another like a tightening rope around our waists. Once captive, now captured by the stories being retold.

Holocaust survivors—our numbers dwindling—listened as our memories were etched into the cold Oświęcim air. One man’s narrative is another man’s memory, which is to say that when I hear someone else recount what has been on endless replay in my mind for decades, I often feel as though I am watching my own past from the outside. Even as we stood shoulder to shoulder, bound by this shared history, our experiences were never the same. Auschwitz was a microcosm of the world. A place where suffering was universal, yet deeply individual.

There were ceremonies, memorials, and moments of silence. Each event lined up like dominoes, one after another, predictably falling in order. But what I had planned for the day was outside anyone’s expectations. I was the lone domino, waiting to begin a new movement altogether.

I had come back to Auschwitz this time not just as a survivor, but as a witness. I was standing beside a man who had once served the very system that tried to erase me. Dr. Hans Münch, a former Nazi doctor who had worked at the camp, had agreed to return with me, not to justify or deny, but to publicly confirm the existence and operation of the gas chambers.

It was a moment of historical significance; a Nazi doctor and a survivor standing together.

Not as enemies, but as two people willing to confront the truth.

And yet, as it would turn out, almost no one wanted to hear it.

A Historic Day at Auschwitz and Birkenau

On this anniversary, the official ceremonies took place at Auschwitz I, where German President Roman Herzog, Polish President Lech Wałęsa, and Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel stood before the infamous “Arbeit Macht Frei” gate. They spoke of memory and responsibility, of the scars left on generations and the duty to remember. Their words did not merely recount the past—they pressed upon the present, urging the world to acknowledge its capacity for both devastation and conscience, and to ensure that such horrors never happen again.

Commemoration stretched beyond the main camp. Survivors also returned to Birkenau (Auschwitz II), the vast extermination site where nearly a million Jews were murdered. They walked the long, desolate paths between the barracks, stood before the ruins of the gas chambers, and faced the remnants of the crematoria—structures the Nazis had tried to destroy in an attempt to erase evidence of their crimes. Yet the absence of intact buildings did nothing to lessen the presence of those who had perished there.

For many survivors, this was more than a visit to a memorial; it was a return to the last place their parents, siblings, and children had drawn breath. They stood where their families had vanished into smoke, stepping into the hollowness of birthdays never celebrated, anniversaries never reached, and futures that had been stolen before they had a chance to unfold. Some whispered names into the air, speaking to their loved ones who had no graves, only this earth—this soil heavy with the petrified ash and unending goodbyes.

Birkenau is where I spent most of my time as a prisoner in the barracks set apart for Mengele Twins.

As I listened to the speeches, I respected the calls to remembrance and responsibility. But I was also remembering something else.

Fifty years earlier, I had sensed a shift in the camp. There weren’t as many Nazi soldiers around. Some of the guard towers stood empty for hours at a time. More planes flew overhead. The atmosphere felt different, and for the first time in years, I let myself wonder if something was about to change.

That flickering hope had finally ignited the moment I saw the Soviet soldiers come through the gates.

They were big men with kind faces, their shock evident as they took in the horrors around them. For so long, every uniform had meant danger, every stranger had been a threat. But then—of all things—they handed us chocolate, cookies, and hugs. They treated us not as prisoners but as children. Like human beings. And in that moment, for the first time in years, I let myself believe that I was safe. Or at least rescued.

Fifty years later, I was back. Of my own choosing. With a Nazi doctor.

Life certainly is surprising.

Who Was Dr. Hans Münch?

Dr. Hans Münch was one of the very few Nazi doctors at Auschwitz who refused to participate in mass murder, which is a distinction that set him apart but did not absolve him from the system he served.

Unlike Dr. Josef Mengele, who conducted horrific experiments on children—including myself and my twin sister, Miriam—Münch refused to take part in selections at the gas chambers. Instead, he focused on medical research and was known to falsify documents to help prisoners avoid execution.

After the war, he stood among other SS doctors at the Dachau Trials in 1947, facing accusations of war crimes. He was the only Nazi physician acquitted. Survivors had testified on his behalf, describing how he had, in small but deliberate ways, tried to save lives.

When I first met Dr. Münch, I did not know what to expect. I knew the facts, including his acquittal, and the testimonies in his defense. But I also knew this: he had still worn the uniform. He had still walked free while so many had perished.

I asked him a single question.

“Do you remember what happened in the gas chambers at Auschwitz?”

He did not hesitate.

“It’s the nightmare I live with every day of my life.”

In that moment, something shifted.

Until then, I had never imagined that a Nazi doctor could carry the weight of Auschwitz. That one of them could feel remorse—not performative, not evasive, but real. And, most importantly, he did not deny it.

He was not rewriting history.
He was not justifying his actions.
He was acknowledging the truth.

And that was why I asked him to sign a statement confirming the existence of the gas chambers.

He agreed.

A Story No One Wanted to Hear

I spent the day walking through the camp with my group, handing out leaflets about our press conference.

A survivor of Auschwitz had forgiven a Nazi. A Nazi was speaking openly about the crimes of his own regime. This should have been important.

And yet, as I passed out the leaflets, people turned away.

Some refused to meet my eyes. Others shook their heads, waved me off, hurried past. A few took the paper from my hands but crumpled it before they had even read the words. It was as if they couldn’t bear to hold it, as if touching the idea itself was too much.

They didn’t want to hear about forgiveness.

I turned to my group and said, “If I had shot or killed a Nazi, the entire world press would want to talk to me.”

And I knew I was right.

The world is far more comfortable with stories of revenge and punishment than it is with stories of forgiveness and reconciliation.

The Press Didn’t Show Up

That evening, we held our press conference–a once-in-a-lifetime event.

There were hundreds of journalists at Auschwitz for the 50th anniversary. Cameras flashed. Reporters scribbled into their notepads. They had spent the day capturing solemn reflections, moments of silence, and speeches delivered from podiums draped in flags. They had written their headlines before they even arrived.

But what we were about to share didn’t fit the story they had come to tell.

Only six showed up.

A reporter from an Israeli newspaper. A German magazine journalist. TV reporters from France, Sweden, Israel, and the Netherlands.

That was it.

I wasn’t expecting a standing ovation. I wasn’t expecting a Nobel Peace Prize. But I had hoped for a fair discussion.

Instead, the questions felt like tiny knives.

They didn’t ask Dr. Münch about what he had witnessed.
They didn’t ask about his knowledge of the gas chambers.
They didn’t ask why he had agreed to stand beside me and bear witness.

Instead, they turned on me.

They questioned my decision to meet with him. They asked how he had avoided prosecution, ignoring the fact that he had been tried three times and saved by the testimony of thirty Auschwitz inmates.

I had expected the press to be interested in his testimony.

I had hoped they would want to document the facts he had come to share.

Instead, all they wanted to know was how he had escaped punishment.

I left feeling drained, disappointed, and frustrated.

But what I didn’t know was that the next day, the moment that mattered most was still waiting for me.

A Candle No One Expected

The next day, on January 28, we gathered at the Auschwitz I crematorium to light candles in memory of those who were killed there. If you’ve never been to this place, there are some intangible details that defy anything photography or video could capture. And I don’t think that’s only because walking through the small entry roughly cut out of the cement brings to mind everything you already know about what happened here. The crematorium isn’t heavy with memories alone. It isn’t a place where our minds lead the way with well established ideas and theories on how to process tragedy. Instead, it’s a place where the atmosphere takes over and your mind bows itself in reverance to that which already exists there.

Speaking as Jill now: the first time I laid eyes on the crematorium at Auschwitz I hestitated. This moment occurred right after the docent giving us a tour of the camp stood below the gallows at which Rudolph Hoess was hanged for his crimes against humanity. Looking up at where a noose was once tied, I squinted into the sun, shielded my eyes with my hands, and I imagined the moment. Oddly enough, it wasn’t satisfying at all. Almost as if the docent heard my thoughts, he said, “Though he was killed here, we have to ask ourselves if justice has been achieved. What is justice? Does it exist in this world? One man’s life for 6 million lives? What exactly happened at this gallow?” Exactly. What happened here? Whatever it was, it wasn’t justice. This was the moment I began to learn that justice doesn’t really exist in this world. Though I fully believe justice comes in the next.

It was with those thoughts tumbling through my brain that I saw the crematorium. And hesitated. Moments later, I was standing on the very ground from which an army of souls traded their earthly comfort, dreams, relationships, trust, and breath for a new existence that flew them far above the screams and into a reality void of the suffocating presence in this place.

Now back to Eva’s re-telling.

The air was sharp, the kind of cold that tightened in your chest. Each of us had been given a candle. One by one, we stepped forward, shielding the small flames from the wind as we placed them near the ovens.

I was standing in silence, watching the flickering light, when I heard Dr. Münch’s voice behind me.

“Eva,” he said, his tone almost hesitant. “Everyone has received a candle to light. How come I did not receive one?”

I turned to face him, surprised.

“I didn’t know you wanted one,” I said honestly. “But if you do, I will be glad to give you one.”

I handed him a candle.

And then, without hesitation, he walked to the ovens and lit it.

The moment was already heavy, but then, in a voice that stopped us all in our tracks, he said:

“I light this candle in the memory of all the people I watched die in the gas chambers.”

The air shifted.

For a moment, no one spoke.

There was no script for this. No press cameras rolling. No speeches prepared. No audience waiting for a perfectly crafted moment.

Just a former Nazi doctor standing before the ruins of the crematorium, bearing witness to the truth—openly, voluntarily, without hesitation.

And in that instant, something happened that could never be undone.

In that simple act, he had spoken the words that history demanded to be heard.

Bearing Witness

For fifty years, survivors had pleaded for the world to believe what had happened within these barbed-wire fences.

For decades, deniers had attempted to rewrite history, erasing the voices of the murdered.

But here stood a man who had once been inside the system, admitting it for all the world to hear.

And yet, what moved me most was not just that he had spoken the truth.

It was that he had done it there.

On that soil.

The very ground where I had once stood as a child, stripped of everything—my home, my parents, my dignity, my name.

The same ground where I had fought to stay alive, where the ashes of those who did not survive still clung to the earth beneath our feet.

I had come back to Auschwitz to prove something.

To prove that the Nazis had not won.

To prove that despite everything—despite the unimaginable suffering—I was still here.

I had reclaimed my life.

I had reclaimed my power.

And in that moment, I saw that Dr. Münch had done something similar.

He had stepped forward—not as a prisoner, but as a man once protected by the very system that had tried to destroy me.

He had been part of it, shielded by its power.

And yet, standing before the crematorium, he did not hide.

He did not justify.

He did not excuse.

He acknowledged.

He bore witness.

He stood in the place where so many had perished, and instead of cowering behind silence, he chose to speak.

Above is a photo of Gas Chamber #2 that I took when I was at Birkenau in 2015 for the 70th anniversary of the liberation of the death camp.

Featured Image photo credit: I took that photo during my first visit to Birkenau with Eva in the summer of 2013.

To read more by Jill Szoo Wilson visit my Substack.

Trapped in the West Bank: Eva Mozes Kor’s Harrowing Encounter

In 2015, Holocaust survivor and Mengele Twin, Eva Mozes Kor sent me an email recounting one of the most harrowing experiences of her later years: an encounter in the West Bank that left her feeling vulnerable in a way she hadn’t since Auschwitz. The email was raw, unfiltered, and deeply personal.

As I revisit her words, I have chosen to write this piece in her own voice, staying true to the way she described the events to me. It offers a glimpse into the complexities she faced, not only as a Holocaust survivor and educator but as someone who, even decades after her liberation, found herself in situations that tested her sense of safety, trust, and resilience.

This is her account.

In July 2005, I traveled to Israel as part of the filming process for Forgiving Dr. Mengele, a documentary about my journey as a Holocaust survivor and my philosophy of forgiveness. The trip was filled with emotional moments: revisiting the agricultural school in Magdiel where I lived after Auschwitz, reconnecting with my sister Miriam’s family, and filming an interview with fellow Mengele Twin survivor, Jona Laks, at the Jewish Heritage Museum. But nothing prepared me for one of the most harrowing experiences I had since liberation.

Bob and Cheri, the filmmakers, had arranged for me to meet with a group of Palestinian educators to discuss a book written collaboratively by Israeli and Palestinian teachers. The book aimed to help students from both sides better understand each other’s histories. It seemed like an interesting and worthwhile project, and I was open to hearing their perspectives. But as the meeting approached, I found myself increasingly uneasy.

I had been under the impression that we would be meeting these teachers in Jerusalem. Instead, we suddenly arrived at a border checkpoint, where we were told we had to cross into the West Bank on foot. I had no idea this was part of the plan, and panic set in. Refusing to cross would cause problems, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was walking into something dangerous.

On the other side, a Palestinian professor named Sami met us, surrounded by a group of young Arab men speaking in Arabic. It was clear that they were discussing me, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. That alone made me feel incredibly vulnerable. I had dressed modestly out of respect for their customs, wearing a long skirt instead of my usual pants, but that did little to ease my growing discomfort.

Sami took me to a bombed-out building and told me, “See, this is what the Israelis did to us.” I had seen the destruction before; it had been there for three years. “Why haven’t you cleaned it up?” I asked. Sami said they didn’t have the money. “You don’t need money to clean up a site,” I replied. “You need strong young men, and you have plenty of them.” I saw what he was doing. He assumed I was a naïve, bleeding-heart liberal who would unquestioningly accept his victim narrative. But I had been an Israeli soldier. I knew the conflict was far more complicated than he wanted me to believe.

The real ordeal began when I was taken to an Arab school in Bethlehem, where I was introduced to eight Palestinian teachers and one Israeli professor. The Israeli professor, the one who had convinced Bob to set up this meeting, never showed up. I felt abandoned, surrounded by people who saw me not as a Holocaust survivor, not as an individual, but simply as an Israeli and a Jew.

I took this photo of Eva Mozes Kor outside Block 10 in Auschwitz I.

As we began filming, the conversation had nothing to do with the book I had come to discuss. Instead, the teachers launched into a four-hour tirade about how Israel had made their lives miserable. I wanted to ask why the restrictions they complained about had been put in place, but I was afraid to say anything. I was in their hands. Bob and Cheri had no power to protect me. The fear was paralyzing. I felt like a hostage, unable to speak, unable to defend myself, unable to leave.

Eventually, I ran out of the room, sobbing uncontrollably. I hadn’t felt so trapped and powerless since Auschwitz. Bob and Cheri were apologetic, but it was too late. My goodwill had been exploited for a political agenda, and my trust had been shattered. The final humiliation was sitting down to eat with the teachers. I pretended to take a few bites so as not to offend them, but all I could think about was escaping.

It was nearly 10:30 p.m. before I was finally back on Israeli soil. Only then could I breathe again. Only then did I feel safe.

This experience reinforced something I have always believed: Many Holocaust survivors who live in Israel are still on the battlefield every single day. Their war did not end in 1945. The trauma of persecution never truly fades when you must still fight for your right to exist.

As for me, I survived yet again. But I will never trust so easily again.

Read more by Jill Szoo Wilson on Substack.

The Question of Justice: Forgiveness vs. Accountability

In conversations about forgiveness, Eva Mozes Kor, Holocaust Survivor and Mengele Twin, was often asked tough questions about justice, especially regarding criminals, terrorists, and those who have killed. One such question came from a UK film director, who asked, “Should we just forgive them and let them go?” This question challenged Eva’s own ideas of forgiveness and set her on a path to delve deeper into the complexities of justice and forgiveness.

Her response to this challenge was powerful: “We must decide what we want the end result to be,” she explained. If the goal is punishment, then “we just hang him/her,” because after all, she had spent her life hearing the statement, “Justice must be done.” But Eva quickly challenged that notion, pointing out that while justice sounds simple, the reality is far more complicated.

The Search for Justice: Mengele’s Escape

Eva shared her concerns about how justice was sought for the Nazis after World War II, focusing specifically on Dr. Josef Mengele, the infamous Nazi doctor who performed experiments on Eva and her twin sister, Miriam. Mengele’s arrest under his name by the American forces, only to be released a day later due to a mistake, underscored the failure of justice. Despite his heinous crimes, Mengele’s name was never included in the Nuremberg Trials, and it wasn’t until 1985 that serious efforts were made to find him.

Eva had long been suspicious of the official accounts of Mengele’s death. In 1985, after taking a group of Mengele twins to Auschwitz to mark the 40th anniversary of the camp’s liberation, the search for Mengele’s whereabouts became an international story. Governments like those of Germany and the U.S. announced that Mengele’s bones had been found in Embu, Brazil, but Eva remained skeptical. The rushed, secretive nature of the investigation raised red flags for her.

The Inquest: Investigating Mengele’s Death

Eva’s suspicions led her to take action. Determined that survivors had the right to examine the truth, she organized an inquest into Mengele’s death, inviting forensic experts, historians, and survivors of Auschwitz, including Mengele twins. Eva could not raise funds for the inquest, so she took out a second mortgage on her house to pay for the investigation. This decision highlighted Eva’s unwavering commitment to finding the truth.

Just days before the inquest was set to begin on November 15, 1985, Eva received what she said was a threatening phone call from Neal Sher, the director of the U.S. Justice Department’s Office of Special Investigations. He demanded that Eva provide the names of those who had seen Mengele alive after 1979, or face the possibility of U.S. Marshals visiting her. Eva stood firm, refusing to yield to threats and continuing with the inquest.

The Inquest Findings: The Mystery Deepens

During the three-day inquest, experts including pathologist Dr. Michael Baden, psychologist Dr. Nancy Segal, and German-educated physician Dr. Werner Loewenstein examined the evidence. Dr. Loewenstein, who had translated Mengele’s SS files, was pivotal in uncovering discrepancies in the investigation. He revealed that the bones found in Brazil could not be Mengele’s because they lacked evidence of osteomyelitis, a condition documented in Mengele’s medical history. This revelation cast doubt on the official story and bolstered Eva’s belief that the investigation had been a rushed cover-up.

The panel of experts, including Eva herself, reviewed the U.S. Justice Department’s forensic report and called for further investigation. They raised serious concerns about the findings, including discrepancies in the identification of the bones and the absence of investigations into post-1979 sightings of Mengele. Despite this, the official stance remained that Mengele had died in 1979.

The Call for Justice: Victims’ Rights and Compensation

Beyond the questions surrounding Mengele’s death, Eva also highlighted the ongoing suffering of survivors of his experiments. Many of Mengele’s victims, particularly the twins, suffered from chronic medical conditions such as kidney issues, heart problems, and spinal degeneration, all due to the unscientific and inhumane experiments Mengele conducted at Auschwitz. Despite the immense suffering, the German government had yet to offer compensation to these survivors.

Eva used her platform to call for justice for the victims of Mengele’s experiments, urging the German government to compensate them for their pain and medical costs. She made it clear that the failure to offer compensation was an embarrassment to the German government and a further injustice to those who had already endured so much.

The Power of Forgiveness: A Call to Action

Throughout her efforts, Eva remained steadfast in her belief in the power of forgiveness, a principle that had defined her personal healing since she forgave the Nazis in 1995. In the face of betrayal, deception, and injustice, Eva continued to advocate for forgiveness as a means of healing, not just for herself but for the world.

Eva’s call to action extended beyond the personal. She proposed an addendum to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights that would include the right to emotional healing, emphasizing forgiveness as a necessary act for personal and societal well-being. Through forgiveness, Eva believed that victims could transcend their suffering and reclaim their emotional freedom.

Conclusion: A Legacy of Justice and Healing

Eva’s journey to uncover the truth about Mengele’s death and the suffering of his victims was not just about seeking justice for the past. It was about ensuring a future where forgiveness, healing, and emotional freedom were recognized as fundamental human rights. Her efforts to shine a light on the long-term pain caused by atrocities and the need for healing through forgiveness resonate as deeply today as they did in 1985.

Eva Mozes Kor’s legacy continues to inspire those who seek justice, understanding, and healing, teaching us that while forgiveness is a personal journey, it also has the power to shape a more just and compassionate world.

Read more by Jill Szoo Wilson on Substack.

The Power of Forgiveness: Eva Mozes Kor’s Call for a New Human Right

In the fall of 2006, Eva Mozes Kor, Holocaust survivor and Mengele twin, received an unexpected invitation that would set her on a new path in her journey to advocate for forgiveness as a human right. Dr. Joan Lescinski, president of Saint Mary-of-the-Woods College in Terre Haute, Indiana, invited Eva to a private lunch. Eva, ever curious, arrived dressed in her favorite bright blue suit, eager to learn more. Little did she know, this would be the beginning of an incredible journey, one that would shape not only her legacy but also the conversation around emotional healing and forgiveness on a global scale.

Eva Mozes Kor, photo taken by Jill Szoo Wilson — Eva Mozes Kor. Jill Szoo Wilson took this photo at an NBC studio in Indiana.

A Life-Changing Invitation

As Eva stepped onto the campus, the vibrant fall colors of the trees created a beautiful backdrop for the day ahead. Dr. Lescinski explained that the board of directors had voted to honor Eva with an honorary doctorate for her work in forgiveness and had chosen her to be the commencement speaker in May 2008. It was a rare and deeply meaningful recognition, one that both humbled and surprised Eva, knowing the weight of the responsibility that lay ahead of her.

But this honor would not come quickly. The process took almost a year and a half to prepare. During this time, Eva decided to dive deeper into the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR), especially since the declaration did not address the emotional pain inflicted on survivors and victims of atrocities.

The Idea of an Addendum

Eva, alongside Kiel Majewski, researched the UDHR and realized that while the declaration addressed the physical and civil rights of individuals, it failed to address the emotional trauma that people, especially victims of genocide, carry for most of their lives. This led Eva to propose an addendum to the UDHR, one that would acknowledge the human right to live free of emotional pain inflicted by others and by life itself.

A Legacy of Resilience: Saint Mother Theodore Guerin

As Eva prepared for her speech, she reflected on the perseverance and strength of those who built the foundation of the institution she was addressing. One such person was Saint Mother Theodore Guerin, the founder of Saint Mary-of-the-Woods College. Guerin’s own journey, filled with adversity and relentless determination, resonated deeply with Eva.

Saint Mother Theodore Guerin, a French nun, traveled across the Atlantic Ocean in 1840 to establish what would later become Saint Mary-of-the-Woods College in Terre Haute, Indiana. She was part of a group of Sisters of Providence sent by the Superior General of the Congregation of the Sisters of Providence in France to open a mission in the United States.

She and her fellow sisters arrived in the United States at a time when the country was still relatively young, and the area around Terre Haute was largely undeveloped. Despite facing numerous challenges, including language barriers, limited resources, and harsh conditions, Mother Theodore Guerin persevered and founded the college in 1840. Her vision and determination to provide education for women in the midwestern United States became a reality, and Saint Mary-of-the-Woods College was established.

Eva often reflected on how one person’s determination could spark lasting change. Guerin’s commitment to education, even in the face of hardship, was the very kind of perseverance Eva hoped to embody in her own work. As Guerin had never given up on her dream, Eva refused to give up on her vision for a world where emotional healing was recognized as a fundamental human right.

Eva’s Commencement Speech

In May 2008, Eva arrived at the commencement ceremony, accompanied by her son Dr. Alex Kor and her husband, Marius Kor (“Mickey”). The ceremony felt like another survival test, but Eva was resolute. She stood before the graduates, faculty, and board members, prepared to speak from her heart.

During her speech, Eva took a moment to reflect on her past, on the unimaginable horrors she endured as a ten-year-old girl in Auschwitz. Separated from her parents and two older sisters, Eva, along with her twin sister Miriam, was thrust into an environment of unspeakable cruelty. She shared the vivid memories of being shoved into filthy, overcrowded barracks, deprived of food, and subjected to the terrifying medical experiments led by Dr. Josef Mengele. But she also spoke of her defiance, the way she managed to survive after Mengele’s chilling prediction that she would be dead within two weeks following his lethal injection. Against all odds, Eva lived, and in the process, she learned the profound strength that kept her going (Kor, Surviving the Angel of Death).

Below is an excerpt from her speech:

You have come a long way, and so have I. Sixty four years ago at this time, I was a ten-year-old little girl, huddled with my twin sister, Miriam, in our filthy bunk beds crawling with lice and rats. We were starved for food, starved for human kindness, and starved for the love of the mothers and fathers we once had. We did know then that there was a United States of America. But I knew nothing about the state of Indiana, Terre Haute, Indiana, Saint-Mary-of-the-Woods-College, nor did I dream of receiving an honorary doctorate. In those days I dreamed of food and freedom, so all my energies focused on living one more day and surviving one more experiment [. . .] We arrived in Auschwitz in the Spring of 1944. Within 30 minutes we were ripped apart from my parents and two older sisters. Only my twin sister and I survived Auschwitz. I defied Mengele who said that I would be dead in two weeks after he injected me with a deadly germ, I defied Auschwitz, a factory of death, because I never gave up on myself nor on my dreams.

As she spoke to the graduates, she drew a powerful parallel between her survival and their own journeys. She reminded them that, like herself, they had persevered through challenges. The graduates had worked hard, faced their own struggles, and overcome personal obstacles to reach this moment of triumph. Eva’s words connected their achievements in the classroom to her own perseverance in the face of unspeakable violence. Both, she emphasized, were the result of relentless strength, the kind of resilience that endures and thrives even in the face of overwhelming adversity.

The Power of Forgiveness

Eva then shared a life lesson that she held dear: “Forgive your worst enemy, and forgive everybody who has hurt you. It will heal your soul and set you free.” Her journey to forgiveness, which began on January 27, 1995, was pivotal not only in her own healing but in her advocacy for others to release emotional pain through forgiveness (Kor, CANDLES Foundation).

As part of her speech, Eva called upon the students, faculty, and staff at Saint Mary-of-the-Woods College to sign an addendum to the UDHR, which would advocate for the right to emotional healing through forgiveness. This proposed addendum would be sent to the United Nations, the President of the United States, and the Helsinki Human Rights Commission. Eva felt confident that Saint Mother Theodore Guerin, the founder of the college, was smiling down in approval of this effort.

The Addendum to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights

Eva’s proposed addendum stated the following:

Right to Freedom from Emotional Pain: Every person has the human right to live free from the emotional pain and burden imposed by others, society, or life itself.
Forgiveness as a Path to Freedom: Forgiveness is a viable option for achieving that freedom and the human right to emotional well-being.
Personal and Universal: Forgiveness is a personal act of self-healing, a right that every person must claim for themselves. Each person has the right to forgive in their own time and on their own terms.
The Power of the Addendum: This addendum would serve as a beacon for anyone who has endured pain, offering them the right to transcend their suffering by choosing forgiveness.

Conclusion: A Call for Healing

As the panel of faculty and students signed the addendum, Eva felt a sense of hope. It was not just a symbolic gesture; it was a call to action for everyone who has suffered. Eva’s speech was not only about her own personal forgiveness but also about empowering others to take control of their emotional freedom.

“I did not want to carry the burden of hatred with me. I wanted to live and not just survive.” – Eva Mozes Kor

The event and the addendum were a culmination of Eva’s belief that emotional healing, through the act of forgiveness, was just as vital as any civil or political right. She challenged everyone to embrace forgiveness, not only to heal themselves but to contribute to a world that acknowledges the emotional scars we carry and the universal right to find peace.

Kiel Majewski worked as the Director of Research at the CANDLES Holocaust Museum and Education Center. His role involved conducting research related to the Holocaust, specifically focusing on the Mengele Twins and other aspects of the museum’s mission.

Forgiveness After the Battle: Eva Mozes Kor’s Path to Reclaiming Peace

The problem with survival is that there are other people in the world. If we were simply dropped off in the middle of this jungle called life, with a go-bag, some water, and a means to make fire, we would most certainly get through life with stressful stories but hardly any trauma. For example, if I had to wrestle a bear to the ground because he took my last piece of food, I would come out of that fight banged up but not traumatized. Nearly dead, yes, but with scratches on my arms that would eventually heal. Bears are not the problem. It is people. Wolves in sheep’s clothing.

Eva Mozes Kor and Jill Szoo Wilson met for the first time in Springfield, Missouri, in 2013.

When people get involved, survival shifts. We move from survival as an instinct (wrestling bears for food because we have to eat) to survival despite our instincts, fighting human perpetrators because the violence they bring is not just something we recover from; it is something we live with, long after the battle is over. This is where justice comes in. As humans, we have a strong need for justice. Our first instinct is not usually forgiveness, but rather to seek an equally proportional measure of punishment for those who have wronged us. “An eye for an eye,” right?

I have heard it said that forgiveness is about taking someone off your hook and putting them onto God’s hook. I believe that to be true. But for the sake of this article, let us focus on the hook itself. How can we find peace if we are still holding someone in contempt in a court of our own? How can we find peace when we are the judge, jury, and executioner?

This brings us to forgiveness, a concept that can feel both impossible and liberating. It is not about erasing the past; it is about freeing ourselves from its hold. I began to understand this through my time with Holocaust survivor and Mengele Twin Eva Mozes Kor. In her words and actions, Eva taught me that forgiveness is not an act of excusing the wrongs done to us; it is about choosing to free ourselves from the weight of anger and resentment, allowing us to heal and move forward.

Eva spent her life sharing a powerful message: forgiveness can free us from the pain of the past. But forgiveness is not a simple act, nor is it always possible in the heat of survival. In candid reflections, she discussed how complex and difficult it is to find peace, not just for oneself but for future generations.

Eva was often criticized by fellow survivors for her approach to forgiveness, which she saw as a conscious decision to move beyond the traditional idea of simply “forgive and forget.” For Eva, forgiveness was not about erasing the past or excusing the wrongs committed; it was about choosing to release the grip that hatred and resentment held on her, giving herself the freedom to heal.

She also emphasized that forgiveness cannot be rushed. It is not something one can jump into in the heat of battle or while still fighting for survival. Only after we feel safe, after the danger has passed, can we even begin to consider forgiveness. This understanding was central to Eva’s belief that forgiveness is a long, deliberate process that only becomes possible when we feel secure. For her, the journey did not even begin until four decades after liberation from the camps (Kor). That delay is a testament to the time it takes to heal and to reclaim one’s sense of safety before forgiveness becomes possible.

Psychological research on trauma supports Eva’s view that forgiveness is often a complex and gradual process, particularly when individuals are still grappling with the effects of trauma. Dr. Bessel van der Kolk explains that “trauma robs you of the capacity to forgive, because forgiveness requires a sense of safety, and trauma creates a world where safety is impossible” (The Body Keeps the Score, 2014). This aligns with Eva’s belief that forgiveness only becomes possible when the individual feels secure enough to step away from the “battlefield mentality” of survival.

Similarly, Dr. Judith Herman emphasizes the critical role safety plays in the recovery process. She asserts that trauma survivors must first find safety and regain a sense of control before they can begin processing and healing their wounds (Trauma and Recovery, 1992). Only after this foundational stage can they consider forgiveness, not as an immediate reaction but as part of a longer journey toward reclaiming their emotional well-being and sense of power.

Survival First: The Battlefield Mentality

Eva’s message begins with a clear understanding of human nature. She explains that the survival instinct is innate: “We are all born to maintain life at any cost.” This survival instinct shapes our actions in profound ways, particularly when our lives are at risk.

For example, she argued that forgiving someone who is pointing a gun at your head would make no sense, because you would be dead before you could even say the words. The instinct to protect oneself overrides any consideration of forgiveness in that moment. Eva called this the “battlefield mentality.” In this context, forgiveness is impossible until the threat has passed, the battle is over, and we feel secure again. Only then can we begin to consider forgiveness.

This aligns with the fight-or-flight response, first described by Dr. Walter Cannon (Bodily Changes in Pain, Hunger, Fear and Rage, 1915). Cannon’s research explains how the body’s instinctive reaction to danger prioritizes survival over all other actions, including the cognitive decision to forgive. Only once the immediate threat has passed and we feel safe can we process our emotions and consider forgiveness.

Forgiveness After the Battle: When We Are Safe

Eva believed that for Holocaust survivors living in Israel, or those still coping with the immediate concerns of survival, forgiveness was often out of reach. Many survivors continue to face the realities of their trauma, and for some, the environment in which they live, still grappling with insecurity and violence, means they are not yet able to move beyond the pain. The challenges they face are not just historical; they are still navigating a present shaped by fear, uncertainty, and the need for protection. Eva recognized this complexity and believed that forgiveness could not be forced while survivors are still in a state of ongoing defense, where survival is still their top priority.

Historical context supports Eva’s view. The post-war period in Israel, for example, was one where many survivors faced not only the trauma of their past but also the pressures of rebuilding in a country still fighting for its survival. In such an environment, the idea of forgiveness or reconciliation often took a back seat to the immediate needs for safety and security. Scholars like Hannah Arendt (The Human Condition, 1958) and Natan P. Lasky (Holocaust and Memory, 2001) note that forgiveness in the face of unresolved trauma and ongoing conflict is incredibly difficult, if not impossible, because the wounds remain fresh and the environment does not offer the conditions for healing.

Eva also pointed to the cycle of pain that continues when survivors, unable to forgive, pass on their hatred and distrust. Survivors who choose not to forgive often reject anything related to their oppressors, such as avoiding German products, refusing to visit Germany, or not trusting Germans. This perpetuates the pain and prevents healing. Eva challenged them: “Do you want your children and grandchildren to carry and feel your pain for the rest of their lives, or would you like to give them another inheritance?”

The Inheritance of Forgiveness

Eva reflected on her own family, explaining how her two children responded differently to her philosophy of forgiveness. One embraced it, while the other did not. Despite the differences, Eva believed forgiveness was a choice that could be discovered later in life, even if not immediately embraced. She always said, “I forgive in my name only.” For Eva, forgiveness was a personal decision, one that could not be imposed on others. She recognized that each person must find their own path to healing, and that path may look different for everyone.

She urged survivors of any trauma, whether Holocaust survivors or survivors of child abuse, neglect, or molestation, to consider the possibility of forgiveness. Eva shared how the deep pain caused by betrayal can linger long after the event, but also how releasing that pain is possible. Her advice for those suffering from trauma was simple: imagine how it would feel if the pain had never occurred. Then, shift your perspective and ask, “How would you feel if you could overcome that pain by forgiving those who caused it?”

The Letter of Forgiveness: A Path Toward Freedom

For those struggling to forgive, Eva had a practical suggestion: write a letter to the person who caused the pain. The letter did not need to be sent; it was a personal act of release. Writing a letter of forgiveness allows the survivor to work through the pain, step by step, with the intention of breaking free from its grip.

Research in expressive writing supports Eva’s approach. Dr. James Pennebaker has found that writing about traumatic experiences can significantly reduce stress and improve emotional well-being (Opening Up by Writing It Down, 2016). In his studies, he demonstrated that individuals who write about their emotions and trauma often experience greater emotional clarity and a decrease in physical symptoms related to stress. This form of writing helps individuals process difficult emotions in a controlled, private way, which can be especially beneficial for survivors of trauma who may find it difficult to talk about their pain.

Eva reassured her audience: “What can this silly letter accomplish? Try it, what can you lose? Only your pain. And if you don’t like how it feels without that pain, you can always take it back, but you will not miss it.” This simple act, she believed, could free people from the constant burden of past trauma and open the door to healing. Studies have shown that writing can lead to emotional relief, helping individuals feel lighter and less burdened by their past. By putting the pain into words, survivors can begin to regain control over their emotions and take steps toward freedom.

A Call to Action

Eva’s message is about reclaiming your freedom. She taught me that forgiveness is not about excusing the past; it is about letting go of the weight that keeps you from moving forward. Traveling with her through Poland, Hungary, and Romania from 2013 to 2017, I saw how forgiveness gave her the power to heal, to find peace where pain once lived.

Her words often echoed in my mind as I confronted my own pain. “What would my life be like if I could forgive?” I realized that forgiveness is not just about releasing anger or resentment; it is about letting go of fear and the weight of trying to fix things I cannot control. I spent so much time feeling responsible for making everything right, but I realized that I cannot be in charge of justice across the world. What I can do is release my obligation to correct things beyond my reach. Forgiveness became the key to letting go of that burden, and in doing so, I was able to reclaim peace for myself.

June Hunt defines forgiveness as “a deliberate choice to release feelings of resentment or vengeance toward a person or group who has harmed you” (How to Forgive… When You Don’t Feel Like It, 2008). Hunt emphasizes that forgiveness is not about condoning the offense but choosing to release the hold that the hurt has over your life. This aligns with Eva’s perspective, where forgiveness is an act of personal freedom, not an act of excusing past wrongs. For Eva, forgiveness was about freeing herself from the weight of past pain, and choosing peace over the perpetuation of hurt.

Through her example, I understood that forgiveness is a choice, a choice that lets you take back the power lost to fear, anger, and the constant desire to control outcomes. It is not an easy choice, but it is one worth making. Because in the end, forgiveness is a powerful act of reclaiming your life, of releasing the past’s grip on your soul and embracing the peace you deserve. It is not about excusing the wrongs or forgetting the pain; it is about choosing to rise above them, to break free from the chains of resentment and fear, and to step forward into a future unburdened by what you cannot change.

Eva Mozes Kor, the Scheisskommando, and the Cost of One More Day

From 2013 to 2017, I traveled with Holocaust survivor and Mengele Twin Eva Mozes Kor, following her story across Poland, Hungary, and Romania. I wanted to learn, not just from her words, but from the places themselves. I walked the dirt roads where she grew up in Romania, stood on the concrete where her family waited to be shoved into cattle cars in Șimleu Silvaniei, and pressed my hand against the cold stone of Block 10 in Auschwitz, where Dr. Mengele once looked down at her and said, “It’s a shame she’s so young. She only has a couple weeks to live.”

Eva never told me what to think. She never tied things up neatly. She only asked me to look, to listen, to understand: survival, real survival, was never just about strength. It was in the details. The ability to step over a dead body and keep moving, because stopping meant risking your own. The skill of slipping a potato from the commissary without getting caught. The discipline to dissociate, not from the rats that scurried over her at night, but from the fear of them, because sleep was necessary, and fear could not be allowed to strip her of the strength sleep afforded her.

It’s easy to imagine survival as something straightforward, a matter of strength or willpower. But in Auschwitz, survival was a negotiation, a constant weighing of the impossible.

“What would you do to survive? You can’t really know until your life is actually in danger. It was easy to die here. Survival took every ounce of strength you could muster.”

Standing in the humid summer breeze at Auschwitz-Birkenau, I contemplated Eva Kor’s words.

It is easy to die. It is difficult to live. Life is fragile. We come from the dust and to the dust we return. Beginnings and endings are consistently marked by celebration, comedy, tragedy, and pathos. Middles are different. The middle of a thing is where the human spirit grows. Middles churn with questions, collide with conflicting purposes, strain toward progress, and wrestle with the weight of stagnation.

Birkenau was an epicenter where middles and endings met. Survival was not simply a contest won by the fittest. It was a succession of choices; choices that rang in the soul of each individual, like the sound of a train dragging its way through the countryside on tracks of steel. Some survived by cultivating their minds to be like the birds that flew above the blood and mire. Some survived by making themselves useful. Some survived by climbing into a trough of human waste to escape the eye of the enemy. Because even here, in filth, there was something worth grasping, something worth staying alive for.

Latrines: A Place of Filth and Refuge

The Nazis allowed prisoners two visits to the latrines per day, one in the morning, one in the evening. That was it. The rest of the time, men, women, and children had to relieve themselves wherever they stood. The ground they walked on bore witness to their labor, their suffering, and the last remnants of their dignity.

The air of Birkenau was thick with an unholy stench: human waste, rancid sweat, the sharp tang of blood, and the sickly-sweet rot of decay. It clung to the skin, crawled into the lungs, and settled deep in the gut like a living thing, an inescapable reminder that suffering here had a scent. And with every breath, sickness followed. Dysentery oozed through the camp, rotting stomachs from the inside out, turning each bite of watery broth into a calculated risk, each swallow a step closer to collapse.

And yet, there was an odd paradox: working in the latrines was considered one of the best jobs in the camp.

Imagine a world where standing in human waste meant protection. In Auschwitz, it did.

The Paradox of the Latrine Workers

The latrines were a guard-free zone. And so, in this rancid, airless place, there was something invaluable: privacy.

For those assigned to the latrines, the absence of guards offered a rare and fragile freedom. In the stench and shadows, prisoners bartered stolen scraps, exchanged whispered news, and conspired in low voices. Some sought fleeting moments of physical intimacy, an urgent defiance against a world that had stripped them of choice. In a place built to erase them, the latrines became one of the few spaces where prisoners could still claim their own existence.

Here, in the thick of filth, they remembered they were still human.

The Work of the Scheisskommando

Their job was simple: lift the heavy concrete slabs covering the waste pits, lower themselves inside, and scoop out the accumulated filth.

If you’ve ever gagged while cleaning out your refrigerator after leaving leftovers for too long, imagine standing waist-deep in a sea of decay. The air was thick, humid, and alive with flies. The stench coated everything, clinging to their skin and settling into the creases of their clothes like an unshakable second skin.

But for those who had this job, it was a lifeline. They weren’t being worked to death in the fields. They weren’t being lined up for random executions. They weren’t subjected to the relentless gaze of the SS officers who delighted in tormenting prisoners for sport.

The latrines, for all their horrors, offered something rare in Auschwitz: predictability.

A Dignity That Refused to Die

Powerlessness is a disease that seeps into the soul. Strip away respect, dignity, and basic rights, and two things happen: the perpetrator swells with power, and the victim shrinks.

Allowing prisoners to stand ankle-deep in their own filth was not just a byproduct of poor sanitation, it was an act of control. The SS guards didn’t have to lift their legs and urinate on the prisoners to show their dominance. They merely had to stand still while the prisoners did it to themselves.

But in the darkest places, even where dignity was supposed to die, the will to live persisted. The latrine workers of Auschwitz-Birkenau found ways to carve out a space for themselves, to steal back fragments of their humanity, to keep moving forward when everything around them said they should fall.

Consider if you will, a woman falling from the sky into the deep ocean. She is surrounded by foreign creatures, disoriented by the sounds and weight of the water. She is not a fish. She has no gills. The water is her enemy. It presses on her lungs, reminding her with each second that this place does not belong to her.

She has a choice. She can panic and sink, or she can swim.

This is the paradox of survival. This is the choice of the Scheisskommando.

The Final Question

Eva Mozes Kor once asked a group of people this question as we stood inside a latrine at Birkenau:

“How many of you could survive here? What would you do to survive?”

Survival in the death camps was never about dignity. The prisoners carried that within them, untouchable even in the face of brutality. What was at stake was something else entirely. Life in exchange for one more day. Hopelessness held at bay for a sliver of hope. The certainty of an ending deferred, just long enough to stay in the middle a little longer.

We like to think we know ourselves. That in the face of unspeakable horror, we would know what to do. That we would have a plan. A way to resist. A way to bring order to chaos.

But the truth is, we don’t know.

We can’t know.

Not until we’re the ones at the edge of the pit, staring into the void.

Not until survival is no longer a question, but the only thing left.

Five Factors That Allowed Hitler to Rise to Power

The Ultimate Power: Forgiveness

Am Yisrael Chai: The People of Israel Live

We’re on the Battlefield Again

Recent Antisemitic Attacks (2023–2025)

Christians, What Will You Do?

The Controversy Over Forgiving a Nazi

The Fight to Build CANDLES Holocaust Museum

The Fire That Could Not Destroy Her Mission

The Legacy of a Fighter

What This Means for Us

Marking 50 Years Since Liberation

A Historic Day at Auschwitz and Birkenau

Who Was Dr. Hans Münch?

A Story No One Wanted to Hear

The Press Didn’t Show Up

A Candle No One Expected

Bearing Witness

The Search for Justice: Mengele’s Escape

The Inquest: Investigating Mengele’s Death

The Inquest Findings: The Mystery Deepens

The Call for Justice: Victims’ Rights and Compensation

The Power of Forgiveness: A Call to Action

Conclusion: A Legacy of Justice and Healing

A Life-Changing Invitation

The Idea of an Addendum

A Legacy of Resilience: Saint Mother Theodore Guerin

Eva’s Commencement Speech

The Power of Forgiveness

The Addendum to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights

Conclusion: A Call for Healing

Further Reading

Survival First: The Battlefield Mentality

Forgiveness After the Battle: When We Are Safe

The Inheritance of Forgiveness

The Letter of Forgiveness: A Path Toward Freedom

A Call to Action

Further Reading

Latrines: A Place of Filth and Refuge

The Paradox of the Latrine Workers

The Work of the Scheisskommando

A Dignity That Refused to Die

The Final Question