We were living then, in 1943, in the Jewish ghetto [quarter] in Amsterdam, as ordered by the German occupiers. My parents wanted to keep the family together as long as possible, but the razzias [roundups] became more and more frequent. May 23, 1943, a day that will live forever in my memory, was the day that all four of us were going into hiding. My father was met and left the house at 7a.m. My sister left a short while later, to be escorted to her new address. When it was my mother's turn to leave, she had a hard choice to make. Here she was leaving her youngest child – I was thirteen at the time – not knowing what my fate would be. The choice was difficult, but the result inescapable. So I had to wait alone, knowing and hoping that Gisela would not let me down.
Later that afternoon, Gisela came and escorted me from Amsterdam to Eindhoven, to the home where I spent the rest of the occupation years in hiding.
After the war I never found out what became of Gisela, never knew that she herself had been in a concentration camp, the place she helped so many others to avoid. Not until many years later did our paths cross again, by accident. Since the time we have been corresponding and I have visited her home in Waalre on visits to Holland. She has promised me to visit us in America someday.