It was the summer I turned 9, and I dreaded being sent to a new camp. I was a bit of a loner, and never quite got along with other boys, but fortunately for me, I meet Benji.

Benji was curled up on a rug in the corner, and his eyes lit up as I entered the bunkhouse. Although he had visible scars of abuse, it hadn’t broken his spirit. He followed me everywhere. Even when I was sent on an excursion outside the camp grounds, he would dig under the fence that lined the camp to follow. He always got caught, and would be dragged back yelping.

I can’t say all the trouble Benji caused was only his fault. I allowed him to sleep in my bunk, and I knew I might not have seen him again if caught. I didn’t care, we were inseparable.

Benjamin Hurwitz died that summer of 1944. He had followed me and 9 other boys outside the camp to our work detail of chopping wood. The German guard fired only one shot when they caught him.

That summer I learned the true meaning of the Final Solution to the Jewish Problem.