I’ll never forget the number 56478 – I’ve made sure no one else will either

It was 1945.  

I and hundreds of other Jews – as well as resistance fighters, political opponents and prisoners-of-war – had been packed into the barges in the Baltic Sea. 

Every day, a Nazi officer would appear. He’d look down into the mass of starving, terrified people, and he’d select someone at random to be forced on deck; no matter how much they struggled or protested.

We’d hear a heart-rending cry followed by a splash as that victim was thrown into the sea. 

20 or 25 people were chosen each day to be murdered like this. 

Huddled on that barge, I never imagined I’d be liberated. I never imagined I’d be here today, aged 94. 

I was nine years old when the Second World War broke out. 

All the Jewish schools were closed, and we weren’t permitted to enter any non-Jewish shops. 

There was insufficient food and life was very difficult. 

My father had just fled to the UK, after my mother fought to get him a hard-won visa to prevent him being sent to a concentration camp. War broke out 10 days later shattering our plan to follow him. 

We survived as best as we could for two years. But in 1941, two brown-shirted SS officers – the ‘bully boy’ section of the Nazis – came to our door and told my mother she had 10 minutes to pack a suitcase. 

They took us to a nearby railway station, where we were packed into a train with around 1,000 other Jews. 

Three days later, we arrived at the Riga ghetto in Latvia, where the Nazis had put a barbed-wire fence around the poorest area of Riga. 

We were there for nearly two years. 

It was grossly overcrowded and we were immediately put on a starvation diet. 

It was here that my brother and I witnessed our first violent death. 

As one group came back from work, the Nazis randomly body-searched one woman. They found she was concealing food – so they lined her up against a brick wall and shot her. 

Soon after we arrived, we were told that, instead of names, we now had numbers. There was often a punishment – usually a few lashes with a whip – if you couldn’t recite it on demand. 

I’ll never forget my number: 56478. 

One day in August 1943, they gathered us all together and started calling out numbers. 

My mother, my brother and I were among those who had numbers called and we were all packed like sardines into cattle trucks. 

It took two or three days to reach a purpose-built labour camp. 

By now, I was 13 years old and I was among those forced to work on nearby rail junctions each day, fixing rails that the Allies had bombed. 

After a few weeks, my mother and I returned one day to find that my little brother had disappeared. 

We heard that two SS officers had taken him away with three others.  

We were desperate; but those four youngsters had vanished off the face of the earth. 

The next morning, both my mother and I had to line up for work as though nothing had happened – but we were heartbroken. In fact, my mother never recovered from the loss of her little boy and for many years after our liberation I refused to believe he had been murdered.  

After a year, we were ordered to strip naked before lining up single-file to face an SS officer, who would point each person either left or right. 

As we shuffled forward, a naked man behind me whispered something, even though we weren’t allowed to converse. 

‘If he asks your age, say you are 17,’ he said. 

Remarkably, that was the question the SS officer asked me. ‘17’, I replied promptly – and he sent me in the direction of those surviving the selection. 

The man behind me saved my life. 

I joined the group of survivors, still naked, out in the open – but my mother had been sent in the opposite direction. 

She’d been condemned to die; most likely within 24 hours. 

Suddenly, dozens of people from the condemned group started to run outside, trying to mingle among us to save their lives. 

The guards spotted some people and started dragging them back. Miraculously, though, my mother was not recognised. 

We were packed into more cattle trucks and sent to Stutthof concentration camp, which had a gas chamber and a crematorium. From there, we were sent to another labour camp and then to another, smaller, camp – where I had to work as the personal slave of one SS officer; brushing his uniforms, polishing his boots, washing the floors – before, after three weeks, being sent back to Stutthof. 

One day in April 1945, numbers were called out again. We were formed into a long column and marched out under armed guard. 

After what seemed an eternity, we reached a small port; and that was where our nightmare on the barges began. 

On day seven on the barges, not having had anything to eat or drink the whole time, the tugs – which were attached to the barges and manned by Nazis – disappeared. 

Some prisoners-of-war clambered up on deck and shouted that we were quite close to the shore. 

They’d been fed more than us and had the strength to prise loose some floorboards and started using them as oars. 

It took a long time; but eventually – very, very slowly – the barge started moving. 

All day and night long, we struggled to cover the few hundred metres between us and the shore; but shortly before dawn, we ran aground and everyone who had an ounce of strength began wading ashore. 

Once we got to land, to our horror the SS returned and found us. 

They shot anyone still on the barge, and rounded the rest of us up into a column – marching us yet again. Anyone too weak to keep up was shot. 

Suddenly, these guards turned and ran as fast as they could – they’d seen an Allied tank column coming towards us. 

Within a few minutes, truckloads of British soldiers appeared and started feeding us and allowing us to rest. 

It was our moment of liberation. 

My mother and I then spent a long time in hospital and a convalescent home. Eventually, welfare officers tracked down my father in the UK – but we weren’t reunited with him in the UK until September 1946. 

It was a wonderful, but painful, reunion – because, of course, we were no longer the full family. 

Now, here I am, having lived a wonderful life. I married; my wife and I have children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I’m so grateful to the Almighty God – who I still believe in – for the opportunities I have had; and to this country, for offering me a life lived in complete freedom. 

Initially, I couldn’t bring myself to speak about those years in the camps; but, eventually, I started to open up. 

I was encouraged to contact the Holocaust Educational Trust, and I’ve spoken at hundreds of schools over the past 20 years or so. 

Around early 2021, the head of the Trust visited me and explained about Testimony 360. It’s a virtual reality education programme about the Holocaust that also includes digital eyewitness testimony. 

They wanted me to be the first survivor to take part, with the aim of students having conversations with me long into the future – and this version of me would be able to answer any questions. 

I had never considered my testimony surviving me, so it took me some time to come to terms with it. Recognising the priceless value of the youngsters seeing me as well as hearing me answer their questions, I said yes. Youngsters have long told me how unforgettable it is to hear the testimony of a survivor, compared to a teacher reading aloud from a book in school. 

‘Listening to you, we will never forget,’ they’ve said. 

I was filmed answering over 1000 questions after a survey was conducted with many pupils, asking them: ‘If you could ask anything, what question would you ask a Holocaust survivor?’. 

Now, when students take part in the programme, AI selects the appropriate answer from the answers I gave. 

I’ve since seen the programme in action at a school – it’s miraculous, and it reinforced for me that taking part was the right thing to do. 

When I first came to this country, I never dreamed I’d see the intense growth of anti-semitism and anti-Jew hatred we’re seeing now. That makes it so much more important for Testimony 360 to be available to as many schoolchildren as possible. 

I’m just happy to see it happening in my lifetime. 

The fact I’ll be answering questions long after I’m six feet down feels utterly surreal and took some acceptance – to be granted, effectively immortality – but if it can permit the Holocaust to educate youngsters on the dangers that intense brainwashing can result in, it is necessary. 

Not so much for its own sake, but for the future of humanity – because if the Holocaust could happen once, it could happen again. 

And anything to prevent that is worth doing. 

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.