Eva Mozes Kor Holocaust Survivor

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.

Featured Image photo credit: WFYI Indianapolis, 2021