♪♪ ♪♪ ♪♪ -My father was a Holocaust survivor.

He had survived the same camp as Elie Wiesel.

They were both the same age.

And when my dad was alive, and through school, I was reading "Night."

I was 14 years old, and I went to my dad and I said, "You know, I'm just reading this book.

Is this the same Auschwitz because this is horrible."

And my father said, "Oh, no, it's a different Auschwitz."

So for a long time, I really thought there were two!

You know, my father's Auschwitz was a kinder, gentler Auschwitz.

There was never a moment where people were dying in front of him.

They killed his siblings, and they killed his parents, and then from that moment on, it was a bunch of strong-willed boys, and they took over.

...and they could hide it under their striped pajamas, as he called them.

It was sort of like Robin Hood and his merry men meet the Nazis in my father's Auschwitz.

And that was the story we were given.

But when he was very, very sick in the hospital, and I knew I was losing him, I realized that there was no going back and that if I didn't make my move, I could not return to the moment of having access to his memories.

And this time he was really tired and he wasn't feeling well.

And I said, "I need to ask you about your time there, in Auschwitz, Dad.

It's important."

And I remember he looked at me, and he had real anger in his face and in his eyes.

He said, "You know, Debbie, from the time that you were a young girl, you always asked your questions.

And I always told you -- 'We got food, we got bread, we divided it up, we didn't suffer.

It was fine.'

And you keep bothering me and asking me the question.

And I keep telling you, like as if I'm in a room, 'Stop knocking on the door.

Go away.

I do not want to let you in this room.'

And yet you keep coming back saying, 'Let me in.'"

And he said, "So I'll ask you one more time to go away."

And he said, "If you knock again, I'll let you in.

But if I let you in this room..." And I said, "Yes, I do, Dad."

And he was crying, and I remember he had covers on his body, because he was really skinny and very, very weak.

And he kicked all the covers off, as if he was kicking down a door.

And he said, "Fine.

Come in then.

Come in to a room that you can never leave.

Come in."

And then I said, "Can I ask you my questions?"

He said, "You're in the room.

You can ask anything."

And I asked him everything that I ever wanted to ask.

I asked him to tell me the real story.

And he did.

It was painful and scary and sickening.

I felt a part of me had died.

And he's right, once you're in that room, you can't get out.

It's always with you.

♪♪ ♪♪ ♪♪ ♪♪ ♪♪ ♪♪ -My father was a Holocaust survivor.

He had survived the same camp as Elie Wiesel.

They were both the same age.

And when my dad was alive, and through school, I was reading "Night."

I was 14 years old, and I went to my dad and I said, "You know, I'm just reading this book.

Is this the same Auschwitz because this is horrible."

And my father said, "Oh, no, it's a different Auschwitz."

So for a long time, I really thought there were two!

You know, my father's Auschwitz was a kinder, gentler Auschwitz.

There was never a moment where people were dying in front of him.

They killed his siblings, and they killed his parents, and then from that moment on, it was a bunch of strong-willed boys, and they took over.

...and they could hide it under their striped pajamas, as he called them.

It was sort of like Robin Hood and his merry men meet the Nazis in my father's Auschwitz.

And that was the story we were given.

But when he was very, very sick in the hospital, and I knew I was losing him, I realized that there was no going back and that if I didn't make my move, I could not return to the moment of having access to his memories.

And this time he was really tired and he wasn't feeling well.

And I said, "I need to ask you about your time there, in Auschwitz, Dad.

It's important."

And I remember he looked at me, and he had real anger in his face and in his eyes.

He said, "You know, Debbie, from the time that you were a young girl, you always asked your questions.

And I always told you -- 'We got food, we got bread, we divided it up, we didn't suffer.

It was fine.'

And you keep bothering me and asking me the question.

And I keep telling you, like as if I'm in a room, 'Stop knocking on the door.

Go away.

I do not want to let you in this room.'

And yet you keep coming back saying, 'Let me in.'"

And he said, "So I'll ask you one more time to go away."

And he said, "If you knock again, I'll let you in.

But if I let you in this room..." And I said, "Yes, I do, Dad."

And he was crying, and I remember he had covers on his body, because he was really skinny and very, very weak.

And he kicked all the covers off, as if he was kicking down a door.

And he said, "Fine.

Come in then.

Come in to a room that you can never leave.

Come in."

And then I said, "Can I ask you my questions?"

He said, "You're in the room.

You can ask anything."

And I asked him everything that I ever wanted to ask.

I asked him to tell me the real story.

And he did.

It was painful and scary and sickening.

I felt a part of me had died.

And he's right, once you're in that room, you can't get out.

It's always with you.

♪♪ ♪♪ ♪♪