Personal Narrative: Shmuel Basch

The year is 2016. I have lived almost a century, and through those years, I have seen the best and the worst of this world. As I look at the familiar numbers tattooed on my forearm, I am reminded of how grateful I am to live here in America, as a free man. These numbers used to represent me, they were my identity. I was known as 782 for so long that I had forgotten my real name, Shmuel Basch. But now, as I look into the mirror, I see my late wife, Anne. She was the only thing that kept me sane. She kept me human. She never made it out of Auschwitz. She sacrificed her own life to save a handful of broken souls, including myself. I will never allow her sacrifice to be in vain. I have lived everyday henceforth for her. Now, as I look into the
All of which, I still cherish to this day. I have traveled the world several times now. After being captive for so many years, I can never stop exploring or satisfy the curiosity. I have built schools in Africa. I’ve given speeches in Ireland, and everywhere I go, I give everything I have to the broken. My goal in life is to make a difference in this world, one person at a time. Kindness and love is a domino effect. A small ripple can create a never ending wave in this cruel world. Life is hard enough as it is. Why do we have to make it more difficult for each
I want to tell myself everything that I wish I would have known sooner; however, I never do. Although it is a painful wound that seeming will never close, I do not wish to change the past. Everything happens for a reason, and I do not want to put my own selfish desires, before God’s plan. As I talk to the young man, I pretend to be someone else. I go by the name Jon. I listen and remember as he pours out his heart to me, like he always does when I have this dream. “So, Jon, have you ever been in love?” With a smirk on my face, I know exactly where this conversation is going. It used to hurt to talk about Anne. At first, I couldn’t even bring myself to have the conversation, but now, it is my favorite. “Do you mean with a woman, or myself?” Shmuel leans back, balancing his chair on its two back legs and laughs, “Don’t play with me old man.” Shmuel’s words are playfully cruel. His defiance and rebellion brings back vivid memories of when he was young, playful, and dumb. I neatly fold my hands together on the table before us, and wait. I listen to all he has to say about the love of his life, Anne. He talks about her fiery red hair that matches perfectly with her attitude, about the freckles on her nose, and about the way she sometimes snorts when she laughs. He tells the story of how he took her boating on their first date and how the boat had flipped over. Shmuel had thought that the date was ruined, but to his