Wow.

Yesterday I heard the story of a Holocaust survivor. Completely unexpectedly. And with great respect and sorrow all at once.

For the past few months, I have been volunteering alongside an older lady named Kaye. Whenever she's in the back sorting clothes, I offer to help because I get such a kick out of working with this sassy, tough, sharp-minded woman. I love hearing her stories about catching the wayward pigeon that broke into her nursing home, or her quick come-backs when staff members are less than kind ("And you're fat," she recently retorted to a condescending orderly). It's a riot to sort through clothes with her and get her take on fashion: "I wouldn't want to be caught dead in that," she told me yesterday, tossing a plaid blazer aside.

I'm not sure how we arrived at this point in the conversation, but somehow we were lightheartedly sorting and chatting yesterday, when the words came out of her mouth. I don't remember how she said it, but when the gravity of what Kaye had said reached my heart - she had survived the Ravensbruck concentration camp - I felt frozen in my place by a trash bag full of donated clothing.

There were so many questions I had, but all I could do was listen. She told me, in her wiry Eastern-European accent, that she had just gotten married and was taken on a train. Nobody had a clue they would end up in such a terrible place. She recounted how her bunk-mate, who had kept her warm at night, was randomly selected by guards one morning and never returned, and how she is still haunted by this. She told of stealing potatoes because she was so hungry and defiant, and how she was beaten senseless upon being caught. With a broken nose and cracked skull, gypsies advised her to sterilize her injuries using her own urine, which worked.

I'm not sure how long she was there - perhaps years - before being rescued. She was not re-united with her husband, who was in the army, for five years. After her rescue, the only thing she had to wear for months were oversized army uniforms or dirty donated clothes from Salvation Army, hence her passion now for volunteering at the Walk-In Closet. Fatigues became Kaye's own uniform until she managed to get a job at the shelter and buy clothes of her own. After this time, she lived in France, in London, and eventually somehow made her way to Canada, where she finally stayed. "So I don't take gunk from anybody anymore," she concluded, "and you shouldn't either." She told me life is short and you have to make the best of everything, a common phrase that took on infinitely more meaning coming from her.

All of this she told me in no more than five minutes or so. I could tell she was visibly shaken and angry, and almost trance-like going back to the memories. I wondered if she talked about her experience often, and if not, why I would be among the priveleged few to hear it. Perhaps she wanted to share the story with the younger generation to make sure it is not forgotten. Maybe it slipped out and suddenly she was thrust deep into her own memories beyond return. Regardless, I will never forget.

It occurs to me now that she must have been my age or even younger when this all began. Of course I can't begin to imagine the horrors she experienced. Upon reading more about the camp she was in, it's amazing that she made it out. Of 130,000 prisoners at this all-female camp, only 40,000 survived. Kaye was among the lucky few, a fighter and survivor. The largest group brought to this camp was Polish women, which is where I am guessing she's from, although I did not ask.

I was awake last night, feeling I had to do something with this story. Writing it in my blog is the best I have come up with so far. I feel connected to Kaye in a sense, knowing that my grandmother's family in Denmark helped Jews sneak into the safe neutrality of Sweden during the war. Knowing that my grandmother was only a bit younger than Kaye, and lived through that terrifying era that so deeply shaped the European mindframe for years to come. I feel a sense of responsibility and am honored, knowing that very few individuals are still around to tell their stories. I hope we manage to pass the information on to future generations.