My grandmother, as a little girl, was in one of the first concentration camps - the ones the British built to keep the Boers in.
She grew up, married a Catholic German aristocrat, and moved to Hamburg in 1933. My grandfather died under "mysterious circumstances" in a state run (read: Nazi) sanitarium. (He was placed there by his family because you'd have to be mad to turn up having started a family with a grotty African farm girl).
In the years following his death, plenty of those family members wound up in camps themselves, although some joined the army instead. Almost all of them lost their land.
My grandmother's diary has a chilling section about a distant cousin (I haven't met anyone from that branch, I don't think) winding up in a Russian arena. The family lived in Czechoslovakia, and when the Russians marched in, they took over the local sports stadium and... used local women for sport. My grandmother (technically an Allied citizen, since she was born in what had become a British colony) got her out, nursed her back to health (warm goat's milk), but she was never quite the same again. The diary doesn't mention her ultimate fate, just that she got well enough to return to her family who had fled elsewhere.
Other than that, I've seen wrist tattoos on old Jewish men, but that was years ago, when I was in elementary school, during some sort of class lecture or something.
Hmm. My confirmation sponsor, an auto mechanic, refused to work on Japanese cars because in WWII, he'd be taken prisoner by the Japs and, apparently, not treated very well. I don't know any more than that. He wasn't in the Bataan Death March, I don't think, but was fighting in the South Pacific theater.
Weird. I don't know anyone who was a Vietnam POW. I mean, I probably do, but I don't know who, since they're not telling. |