I am twenty-seven years old and I still wake up in the middle of the night, to find sweat, mixed with tears, streaking down my face as I try to forget what I know to be the truth. The words my wife hoarsely whispers in the dead of the night offer no solace either. I can not escape it. So far, my attempts to forget have failed

miserably.

As children, my mother pushed us to write what we know, a fairly simple request. With the wisdom of years, I have discovered what you know may not always be the truth and the truth may not be what you know. And over time, what I know has become my truth, my reality, my life.

I know this much.

It was a brisk September day, common for Central Poland, when the Nazis came storming through my grandfather's small town. Hirshel Stein was barely twelve when he watched his baby bother beaten by the Nazis. His beloved, elderly grandfather was shot by an unremorseful solider just a few minutes later. As the cattle cars pulled away from the town, Hirshel's eyes were stuck on the dead bodies that covered the dirt roads.

During the long and tiring ride, Hirshel kept to himself, creating an imaginary barrier between himself and the others in his car. His parents had boarded a different car; they had lost their son in the madness the damn Nazis caused. They lost everything in that uproar. Hirshel watched as others screamed in fear and demanded the cars to stop. He watched children cling to their parents, wives clutch the arms of their husbands, terrified of what might happen to them if they let go. Hirshel worked himself into the corner of the car. His small body curled up into a ball and he made no noise. He did not move until the car stopped at Dachau.

Almost an eternity later, the cars came to a bumpy stop. Masses flowed out of the car and breathed in the fresh air they had been deprived of during their trip. Nazis stood before them, screaming out orders. They were to form a single file line and go in the direction they were told. By this time, his parents found him. As they approached the Nazis, his mother began to sing Hirshel the Yiddish lullaby she had sung to him as a baby.

The Nazis split up my grandfather and his parents. Each one followed a different path the apathetic Nazi pointed toward. Later, Hirshel would learn that his mother, pregenant with her third child, was sent immediately to her death in the infamous gas chambers the Nazis had so craftily created. His father was put to work right away at the camp. Hirshel escaped both labor and death; the Nazis sent him to eat. They recognized the potential in his small body and knew what he was capable of if he was nurtured properly.

Over the course of the next few months, both Hirshel and his father did what they were ordered. They saw each other occasionally. Neither mentioned the possible fate of Hirshel's mother. Over time, Hirshel saw his father less and less, until he had disappeared forever when he was sent to Auschwitz.

For the course of his stay at Dachau, my grandfather kept to himself. He didn't look for trouble. He kept his tiny area clean, he stood tall, and ate as little as possible to survive. He was determined to survive the camp alive. He was willing to do anything to keep his life.

Hirshel's efforts did not go unnoticed. Roughly nine months after his arrival, a solider approached him during one of the typical late night roundups. Dozens of Jewish men stood outside in the icy night. They were feeble and tired. They had lost all their strength the minute they stepped onto the train that brought them to the Nazi's camps.

As always my grandfather stood by himself, at the end of the long line of men. The Nazi stopped when he reached him.

"You," he hollered loudly. No heads turned to look. Hirshel did not respond. "Look at me dirty Jew!" Hirshel lifted his head, avoiding eye contact with the solider. The Nazi asked his name and hometown. When he did not recognize the name of the town, he grabbed Hirschel's wrist and studied the number that would be forever imprinted on his arm.

Upon his request, Hirshel followed the solider to a room filled with Nazis. The solider spoke quickly in German, a language Hirshel would never learn or understand. Another Nazi rose from his seat and took Hirshel outside.

"Do you want to die Jew?"

My grandfather shook his head, remembering the dead bodies in his village.

"Listen. We have been watching you carefully. You show promise. You will live if you help us. It is very simple Jew. You will continue to sleep in the same barrack. You are excused from your labor duties. Each day you will report here. You will tell us about the Jews ... What they think, what they say. You will inform us of their plans to escape. You will become our eyes and ears. If you do as you're told, there will not be a problem. If you listen to us, your life will be spared.