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In My Hands: Memories of a Holocaust Rescuer
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About In My Hands: Memories Of A Holocaust Rescuer
Product Description IRENE GUT WAS just 17 in 1939, when the Germans and Russians devoured her native Poland. Just a girl, really. But a girl who saw evil and chose to defy it. “No matter how many Holocaust stories one has read, this one is a must, for its impact is so powerful.”— School Library Journal, Starred A Book Sense Top Ten Pick A Publisher’s Weekly Choice of the Year’s Best Books A Booklist Editors Choice Review "Powerful and life-affirming, this is the kind of exciting memoir that marks a reader forever." -- The Plain Dealer "Even among WWII memoirs--a genre studded with extraordinary stories--this autobiography looms large, a work of exceptional substance and style." -- Publishers Weekly, starred "Opdyke uses simple direct language to demystify the concept of heroism and depict courage as a matter of basic human decency well within the capabilities of ordinary humans." -- The Washington Post Book World From the Inside Flap IRENE GUT WAS just 17 in 1939, when the Germans and Russians devoured her native Poland. Just a girl, really. But a girl who saw evil and chose to defy it. "No matter how many Holocaust stories one has read, this one is a must, for its impact is so powerful."-- School Library Journal, Starred A Book Sense Top Ten Pick A Publisher's Weekly Choice of the Year's Best Books A Booklist Editors Choice About the Author Irene Gut Opdyke was presented with the Israel Medal of Honor and a special commendation from the Vatican. She died in 2003. Jennifer Armstrong is the author of many highly acclaimed books for young readers. She lives in Saratoga Springs, NY. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. The Villa The instant I was able to get away after breakfast, I walked to the villa as quickly as I could -- quickly enough to put a stitch in my side and to break a sweat in the heat. I unlocked the door and burst inside, dreading the sound of painters bumping ladders against the furniture. But it was silent. I was in time -- assuming that my friends were indeed waiting in the basement. The smell of cabbage and potatoes lingered in the air. Almost fearing what I might find, I opened the basement door and clattered down the stairs, my shoes making a racket on the wooden steps. "Hoo-ee! It's Irene!" I called out. The first room was empty. Trying not to worry, I opened the door to the furnace room, praying to find my six friends -- and Henry Weinbaum. The door creaked as it swung open into the gloom, and I called out again. "It's Irene!" There was an almost audible sigh of relief. One by one, figures emerged from the shadows: Ida, Lazar, Clara, Thomas, Fanka, Moses Steiner, and a young, handsome fellow I took to be Henry Weinbaum. I shook hands with them all silently, suddenly overcome with emotion. They were all there; they were safe and alive. And then, to my surprise, I found three strangers, who greeted me with an odd mixture of sheepishness and defiance. "I'm Joseph Weiss," the eldest of the three said. "And this is Marian Wilner and Alex Rosen. Henry told us." For a moment I was at a loss. I had ten lives in my hands now! But there wasn't time for lengthy introductions. The soldiers from the plant were due any minute to start painting. "Hurry, everyone," I said. "You'll have to stay in the attic until the house is painted. I'll check on you as often as I can. I don't need to tell you not to make any noise at all." This was met with grim nods all around. Then we made our way upstairs. The attic was musty; dust swirled in a shaft of light from the high window, and the air smelled of mouse droppings. "Shoes off," I said. "Don't walk around unless you absolutely must." I locked them in just as trucks ground to a halt out on the street. I kicked the basement door shut on my way to let in the soldiers, and then unlocked the front door. "This way," I said, stepping aside to usher them in with their painting equipment and drop cloths. When I glanced out
