Lie Pie Title: Herman Rosenblat and "The Angel at the Fence"
Lie Pie Classification: diet lie pie, lie pizza

Editor's Note: Honey, I'm sad about this one. I was a little skeptical when I first read it a few months ago, but it seemed to check out at the time. I was much relieved because it was a lovely story and warmed your old granny's heart.  Mr. Rosenblat's memoir has now been canceled due to the "girl with an apple" part being a complete fabrication.  Mr. Rosenblat made the following statement on Dec. 28, 2008:

"To all who supported and believed in me and this story, I am sorry for all I have caused to you and every one else in the world.”

He added:

“Why did I do that and write the story with the girl and the apple, because I wanted to bring happiness to people, to remind them not to hate, but to love and tolerate all people. I brought good feelings to a lot of people and I brought hope to many. My motivation was to make good in this world."

Ain't that awful?  It's hard to be mad at Mr. Rosenblat, though technically he is a lying lie pier.   --Granny, 1/1/09

WATCH YOUR STEP:  STEAMING VIRAL EMAIL B.S. STARTS HERE

A Girl With An Apple

(This is a true story and you can find out more by Googling Herman Rosenblat.
He was Bar Mitzvahed at age 75)

August 1942. Piotrkow , Poland .

The sky was gloomy that morning as we waited anxiously. All the men, women and
children of Piotrkow's Jewish ghetto had been herded into a square.

Word had gotten around that we were being moved. My father had only recently
died from typhus, which had run rampant through the crowded ghetto. My greatest
fear was that our family would be separated.

'Whatever you do,' Isidore, my eldest brother, whispered to me,
'don't tell them your age. Say you're sixteen.

'I was tall for a boy of 11, so I could pull it off. That way I might be
deemed valuable as a worker.

An SS man approached me, boots clicking against the cobblestones. He looked me
up and down, and then asked my age.

'Sixteen,' I said. He directed me to the left, where my three brothers
and other healthy young men already stood.

My mother was motioned to the right with the other women, children, sick and
elderly people.

I whispered to Isidore, 'Why?'

He didn't answer.

I ran to Mama's side and said I wanted to stay with her.

'No, 'she said sternly.

'Get away. Don't be a nuisance. Go with your brothers.'

She had never spoken so harshly before. But I understood: She was protecting
me. She loved me so much that, just this once, she pretended not to. It was the
last I ever saw of her.

My brothers and I were transported in a cattle car to Germany .

We arrived at the Buchenwald concentration camp one night weeks later and were
led into a crowded barrack. The next day, we were issued uniforms and
identification numbers.

'Don't call me Herman anymore.' I said to my brothers. 'Call me
94983.'

I was put to work in the camp's crematorium, loading the dead into a
hand-cranked elevator.

I, too, felt dead. Hardened, I had become a number.

Soon, my brothers and I were sent to Schlieben, one of Buchenwald's
sub-camps near Berlin .

One morning I thought I heard my mother's voice.

'Son,' she said softly but clearly, I am going to send you an
angel.'

Then I woke up. Just a dream. A beautiful dream.

But in this place there could be no angels. There was only work. And hunger.
And fear

A couple of days later, I was walking around the camp, around the barracks,
near the barbed-wire fence where the guards could not easily see. I was alone.

On the other side of the fence, I spotted someone: a little girl with light,
almost luminous curls. She was half-hidden behind a birch tree.

I glanced around to make sure no one saw me. I called to her softly in German.
'Do you have something to eat?'

She didn't understand.

I inched closer to the fence and repeated the question in Polish. She stepped
forward. I was thin and gaunt, with rags wrapped around my feet, but the girl
looked unafraid. In her eyes, I saw life.

She pulled an apple from her woolen jacket and threw it over the fence.

I grabbed the fruit and, as I started to run away, I heard her say faintly,
'I'll see you tomorrow.'

I returned to the same spot by the fence at the same time every day. She was
always there with something for me to eat - a hunk of bread or, better yet, an
apple.

We didn't dare speak or linger. To be caught would mean death for us both.

I didn't know anything about her, just a kind farm girl, except that she
understood Polish. What was her name? Why was she risking her life for me?Hope
was in such short supply, and this girl on the other side of the fence gave me
some, as nourishing in its way as the bread and apples.

Nearly seven months later, my brothers and I were crammed into a coal car and
shipped to Theresienstadt camp in Czechoslovakia .

'Don't return,' I told the girl that day. 'We're leaving.

I turned toward the barracks and didn't look back, didn't even say
good-bye to the little girl whose name I'd never learned, the girl with the
apples.

We were in Theresienstadt for three months. The war was winding down and Allied
forces were closing in, yet my fate seemed sealed.

On May 10, 1945, I was scheduled to die in the gas chamber at 10:00 AM.

In the quiet of dawn, I tried to prepare myself. So many times death seemed
ready to claim me, but somehow I'd survived. Now, it was over.

I thought of my parents. At least, I thought, we will be reunited.

But at 8 A.M. there was a commotion. I heard shouts, and saw people running
every which way through camp. I caught up with my brothers.

Russian troops had liberated the camp! The gates swung open. Everyone was
running, so I did too. Amazingly, all of my brothers had survived;

I'm not sure how. But I knew that the girl with the apples had been the key
to my survival.

In a place where evil seemed triumphant, one person's goodness had saved my
life, had given me hope in a place where there was none.

My mother had promised to send me an angel, and the angel had come.

Eventually I made my way to England where I was sponsored by a Jewish charity,
put up in a hostel with other boys who had survived the Holocaust and trained in
electronics. Then I came to America , where my brother Sam had already moved. I
served in the U. S. Army during the Korean War, and returned to New York City
after two years.

By August 1957 I'd opened my own electronics repair shop. I was starting to
settle in.

One day, my friend Sid who I knew from England called me.

'I've got a date. She's got a Polish friend. Let's double
date.'

A blind date? Nah, that wasn't for me.

But Sid kept pestering me, and a few days later we headed up to the Bronx to
pick up his date and her friend Roma.

I had to admit, for a blind date this wasn't so bad. Roma was a nurse at a
Bronx hospital. She was kind and smart. Beautiful, too, with swirling brown
curls and green, almond-shaped eyes that sparkled with life.

The four of us drove out to Coney Island . Roma was easy to talk to, easy to be
with.

Turned out she was wary of blind dates too!

We were both just doing our friends a favor. We took a stroll on the boardwalk,
enjoying the salty Atlantic breeze, and then had dinner by the shore. I
couldn't remember having a better time.

We piled back into Sid's car, Roma and I sharing the backseat.

As European Jews who had survived the war, we were aware that much had been
left unsaid between us. She broached the subject, 'Where were you,' she
asked softly, 'during the war?'

'The camps,' I said. The terrible memories still vivid, the irreparable
loss. I had tried to forget. But you can never forget.

She nodded. 'My family was hiding on a farm in Germany , not far from
Berlin ,' she told me. 'My father knew a priest, and he got us Aryan
papers.'

I imagined how she must have suffered too, fear, a constant companion. And yet
here we were both survivors, in a new world.

'There was a camp next to the farm.' Roma continued. 'I saw a boy
there and I would throw him apples every day.'

What an amazing coincidence that she had helped some other boy. 'What did
he look like? I asked.

'He was tall, skinny, and hungry. I must have seen him every day for six
months.'

My heart was racing. I couldn't believe it.

This couldn't be.

Did he tell you one day not to come back because he was leaving Schlieben?'

Roma looked at me in amazement. 'Yes!'

'That was me!'

I was ready to burst with joy and awe, flooded with emotions. I couldn't
believe it! My angel.

'I'm not letting you go.' I said to Roma. And in the back of the
car on that blind date, I proposed to her. I didn't want to wait.

'You're crazy!' she said. But she invited me to meet her parents
for Shabbat dinner the following week.

There was so much I looked forward to learning about Roma, but the most
important things I always knew: her steadfastness, her goodness. For many
months, in the worst of circumstances, she had come to the fence and given me
hope. Now that I'd found her again, I could never let her go.

That day, she said yes. And I kept my word. After nearly 50 years of marriage,
two children and three grandchildren, I have never let her go.

Herman Rosenblat of Miami Beach , Florida

This story is being made into a movie called The Fence.