Shawn Hoffman - Samson: A Savior Will Rise

2013 Shawn Hoffman

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hoffman, Shawn.

Samson : a savior will rise / Shawn Hoffman.

pages cm

During World War II, Jewish men were forced to box on Saturday night for Nazi entertainment. The winner got extra food. The loser went to the gas chambers.

ISBN 978-0-8499-6468-8 (trade paper)

1. Holocaust, Jewish (1939-1945) 2. Concentration camp inmates. 3. Boxers (Sports) I. Title.

D804.3.H594 2013

940.5318--dc23

2013014111

Printed in the United States of America

13 14 15 16 17 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

Dedicated to the millions of men, women, and children who were victims of the Holocaust.
May we never forget them and the strength of their faith in the face of death.

Special thanks to Saul, the Auschwitz survivor I met who told me stories of his experiences, stories that inspired me, stories that haunted me, stories that needed to be told...
His confirmations of my research were invaluable, and thus this book was written.

The following is inspired by true stories and based on real events. Some of the characters in this book are amalgamations of more than one person, and certain dates and sequences of events have been altered for the sake of the story.

CONTENTS

They have invented a myth that Jews were massacred and place this above God, religions and the prophets.

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Iranian president, denying the Holocaust actually happened, as quoted on CNN.com, December 14, 2005

In any free society where terrible wrongs exist, some are guiltyall are responsible.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, The Big Little Book of Jewish Wit & Wisdom

He will swallow up death in victory; and the Lord GOD will wipe away tears from off all faces; and the rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all the earth: for the LORD hath spoken it.

Isaiah 25:8

A T FIRST, ALL HE COULD HEAR WAS THE SLOW DRIP of blood into a metal bowl.

Samson Abramss mind fought the darkness. His sense of smell came back to him next. The odor of formaldehyde. The dank dustiness of wet concrete walls. Samson inhaled deeper, struggling for recognition, his mind becoming clearer with each second of consciousness. The sour smell of an open wound. The bitter reek of decayed flesh. He wondered if a corpse was nearby.

Dried blood held Samsons eyelids closed. His hands couldnt move to scratch the blood away, but he could feel the same blood on his face and taste it in his mouth. He strained against the pressure on his eyes until the crusts on the lids gave way. His eyes fluttered open, and he glanced about the room.

It all came back. Block 10, Auschwitz. Experimentation ward. December... 1941.

A single lightbulb struggled against the dark far above Samsons head. He could just make out his surroundings. Nearby on a bench lay surgical tools and blood-soaked rags, scalpels, and broken needles, the equipment for a long, slow death. Specimen bottles lined a shelf far to one side. An IV fed something into his arm. Saline, Samson guessed, just enough to keep him alive. He caught a murky reflection of himself in a stainless-steel urn on the table. He swallowed, his throat painfully dry.

All he could see at first was the side of his jaw. Samson shuddered. That same jaw had once been sharp and keen, the jaw of a middleweight champion boxer. Samson could take a hit from any man, stay standing with a grin, and then pound back his revenge. His opponents said he hit with the force of a heavyweight, earning him the nicknames Heavy Hands, Sledgehammer, and The Lion of Zion. Hed dominated his opponent at the 1936 Olympics, but two judges and a referee disqualified Samson after he knocked his opponent unconscious. They handed the decision to the other man, but everyone in the arena knew Samson had been robbed. Samson had set his jaw in defiance and pride and walked out of the arena without a word.

That same jaw was now skinless.

The muscles in Samsons lower jaw were visible, like someone had begun shaving him with a straight edge but had cut too deep and kept going. Samson could see the backs of his hands looked the same. The tops of his feet. The fronts of his thighs. The surface of his stomach. He couldnt see his back, but by the mind-numbing agony he felt behind him, he didnt doubt his back had also been stripped of skin.

Pain shot across Samsons chest with each breath, and a dull ache throbbed in his shoulder joints. Both arms were held at the wrists, arms stretched wide. From the corners of his eyes, he could discern hed been strapped to some sort of operating table that was propped upright. Metal surgical spikes pierced both of his hands and held him fast on a vertical medical gurney. Leather straps went around his wrists, taking the pressure off the spikes, prolonging the agony. He realized that he had been nailed to a cross.

Two thoughts rushed at Samsonhow long would the torture go on? And where would he be today if hed made a different choice that afternoon on the street in Krakw nearly a year ago? Was it worth everything just to do the right thing and show compassion to his fellow man? Had it been worth it to risk his life and the lives of all those he loved, just to help one less fortunate?

Samson let his mind wander. He could feel the hugs of his twin daughters again, tiny arms that once squeezed him in the afternoon sunlight. He could hear his young sons voice, strong and full of laughter. His brother, Zach, and Zachs fiance, Estherso much potential in that young couple. His aging parents, their presence as comforting as the smell of freshly baked bread. The shape of his wifes body, warm and curved under their bedroom blankets at home.