Erica Miller - Thanks for My Journey: A Holocaust Survivors Story of Living Fearlessly

To my lifelong partner, Jerry, who lent a big hand by staying out of the way so that I could evolve and have it all.

To my children, Diana and Johnny, my biggest fans and most candid critics, who survived and prospered because of me and in spite of me.

And last but not least, to my grandchildren, the icing on the cake of life, who will know me someday and ponder.

I always knew that someday I would document my life, my incredible journey, for my children and grandchildren. Someday perhaps never would have come were it not for Doris Lora of Life Journey Editions, a former colleague of mine, who knocked on my door one day and offered to assist me in telling my story. She took down and organized hours upon hours of taped interviews, and provided structure and order for the web of my life.

It was an exciting process, to say the least. I told my children that parts of my life story are juicyabout my virginity and so forth. Oh boy, Im not sure I want to hear it all, my son commented.

I wish to thank my husband, Jerry, and my children, Diana and Johnny, for their contributions. Their candor is a compliment.

I wish to thank my sister, Judith, for her Shoah interview segment and for remembering details about our family that I had buried or forgotten.

I would be remiss if I were not to give special credit to my daughter, Diana, who spent many hours by my side so that I could bounce off her any and all changes to the original text of this book. Her input and contributions shine all through the text. Exploring the pages of my life was a special journey for both of us.

I thank Laura Gallop and Sophia Fischer for their editing touches, and last but not least, I thank Gerri Knilans from Trade Press Services for her steadfast guidance in getting this book published.

This is a memoir told through my eyes. This is my life story as I see it, and I take full responsibility for the contents. My intention has been to be candid, tempered by consideration. I apologize if I have said anything hurtful.

5:30 a.m., December 30, 2005

I jump out of bed, not sure if I am awake or in a nightmare. My senses are overwhelmedexplosions, thick smoke, the rattling of fire raging mercilessly and engulfing my universe. In an instant Im back in the war zone of my youth, reliving the ferocity of explosions, fire, bombs, and smoke. Although I am half asleep, my thoughts come quickly: Run, run for your life. Get out. I feel panic, like a trapped animal looking to escape to survive. My breathing is shallow. My heart is beating fast.

I am jolted back into the present. I look over to the bed. Jerry does not move. The mayhem failed to arouse him. I am fully awake now. It is not the war of my youth. Our home is engulfed in flames; there is no time to waste. I try to open the bedroom door facing the hallway. There is no passage. The fire is raging toward the bedroom, the last room to fall prey to the unleashed hungry monster of nature. I slam the door closed.

Jerry, wake up! Wake up; we have to get out of here. Hurry. It seems it takes him forever to get out of our king-size bed. He looks bewildered, clumsy, searching for his shirt and slippers. He is so slow! Jerry, there is no time! Hurry, hurry up, lets get out of here!

I run through the back door of our bedroom and into the garden. I am out! I see the spectacular fireworks raging mercilessly through the entire length of our beautiful ranch house. I look back. Jerry is not behind me. I turn back and run inside, literally dragging him out. Hes still sleepy, unaware of the danger.

As we exit, the roof over our bedroom collapses, charring our massive bed to ashes. Later, the fire marshal says that had we not run out when we did, had we been in deep sleep in the middle of the night, we would have burned to death. Just like in the crematorium I had avoided as a child in the concentration camp.

Barefoot and half naked, we stumble toward the front of the house, where our neighbors, awakened by the terrible sounds of a home being consumed by fire, try to comfort us, offering shelter, shoes, blankets, and coffee. It is early in the morning and cold, very cold.

I stand in front of the house, watching, mesmerized, as the fire envelops our entire beautiful home and its precious contents, collected over a lifetime, and turning it all into debris in minutes.

Similar to peoples reports of near-death experiences, I see all my furniture, dishes, pictures, and other treasured memorabilia pass before my eyes, succumbing to the fierce force of the devastation. I can do nothing. Im immobilized, helpless.

All I can do is stand silent, a witness to the inferno.

Suddenly, the survivor in me kicks in. It is not I who is burning. Jerry and I are safe, truly safe. These are things that are burning, just things. Things, things is the refrain of the song of my thoughts. The Nazis did not get me then; the fire did not get me now.

To think that fate has it that twice in my life, I almost burned to death! I can see newspaper headlines: Spared by Nazis, She Avoided Gas Chambers Only to Burn to Death in Own Home.

I am so lucky to have the gift of life a bit longer. We are alive. Thats all that matters. Remember, things are just things. You enter the world naked and exit the world in kind. I Am Alive!

Its all about fate, destiny, or beshert (the Yiddish word I like to use). I was meant to survive once more, saved from the rage of burning hell. I shall continue celebrating life, and I will spread optimism and goodwill in my world until I die. I have this vision: I close my eyes, and in the embrace of my familychildren and grandchildrenI peacefully cross the threshold, ready to join the universe and its mysterious splendor. Thanks for my journey, I am smiling. I feel peaceful. I feel safe. I am transcending above and beyond toward my eternal journey. Poof goes my soul to never-never land.

German is my mother tongue, and Rumania is my birthplace, but I had to leave both behind quite early in life.

I was born on November 10, 1933, in Tshernovitz, Bukovina, a province in Rumania. The area had been part of Austria when my parents were young; hence my mother tongue was German. Later it became Rumania, then Moldavia, and now it is part of Ukraine. I had one sister, Judith, or Dita, as we called her. She was four and a half years older than I.