The world of my past

This is one of the most remarkable Holocaust memoirs ever written. It is the story of a young man who endured the full brunt of Nazi horror. He lived to tell the tale not only of the Lodz ghetto and Auschwitz-Birkenau (where his parents persished in the gas chambers) but of a further three concentration camps - Althammer, Dora and Bergen-Belsen. He survived all of it, but his brother was murdered, as were six million of his people.Abraham Biderman has written his book to keep a promise to his mother. 'Remember, remember what they did to us!' were her last words to him. In turn, he hopes that The World of My Past will serve as a legacy for future generations to learn about and remember what happened to humanity in the middle of the twentieth century. The World of My Past is a riveting personal testimony and a searing indictment of those who perpetrated and acquiesced in some of the most hideous events in human history.COMMENTS ON THE WORLD OF MY PAST'Unbearably moving ... a powerful, touching and truthful account.'Barry Jones'Powerful and profoundly disturbing ... As do the accounts of such writers as Primo Levi, Elie Weisel and Samuel Pisar, so too The World of My Past overwhelms me with the tragedy and horror of it all.'Sir Zelman Cowen'A vivid, haunting testimony ... His eloquence, dignity and clarity shine through the torment of a journey that no-one must make again.'Ramona Koval'A work of immense power ... in all my reading, I know of few works that better bring that time to life.'Phillip AdamsEXTRACT FROM THE WORLD OF MY PASTStaring at my mother, I thought that the years of suffering has not completely eroded the beauty of her face. For the most part, however, my mind was in turmoil. I was in panic and fear. I could not believe - nor could I disbelieve - that within a few hours none of us would be amongst the living. What goes on in this world? Why must we die? My father stood near me, silent, with an empty expression on his face, staring aimlessly into space through the little window crossed with barbed wire. He looked tired. His face bore the marks of starvation and pain. The Polish peasants were out in the fields, and they greeted the train with festive smiles. It almost seemed as though they knew we were coming, as though they were expecting us. They had certainly seen trains like this before. Some of them made hostile, offensive gestures at us. Their children were hopping about and clapping their hands with joy. To this day I wonder how they could. They knew who we were and where the Germans were taking us. They knew what would happen once we reached our destination. What sort of people could enjoy the sight of such a train? What sort of people enjoy the sight of a funeral? ...The trip was long and arduous as the death train, with a repetitious clatter of its wheels, sped into the dark, rhythmically seeming to warn us of our impending fate. After countless hours travelling in the never-ending night, we passed a little railway station, unattended and scarcely lit. It looked unreal. A lonely kiosk with chocolate boxes on display looked like theatre props on a stage. A sign appeared in big black letters on a white oblong board with a black border: Auschwitz... ...There was a sudden squealing of metal against metal as the brakes went into action; and a banging of heavy steel as the buffers struck one another, bringing the train to an abrupt halt, throwing the entire cargo off balance once again. Turmoil and commotion. Exhausted, we fell one on top of the other. It was very dark and very silent outside. Fear filled my heart, causing the blood to rush to my head and hammer at my temples. My senses sharpened, like an animal in the stockyard smelling blood and death. The wagon was filled with panic. Only lamenting and mourning broke the silence of the night.