Seventy years ago, the Holocaust ended. Only 11 people who lived through it remain from the world of entertainment. Now, in gripping video testimonials, Oscar winners, actors, Dr. Ruth and even Judy Garland's hairstylist tell their personal stories, filled with hope and horror, one last time as their themes of genocide, displacement and discrimination continue to resonate today. Plus:The Roman Polanski interview

Bill Harvey

A Czech survivor who became a hairstylist to Judy Garland.

Harvey was as close to death as a human being can be. He already had survived a stint at Auschwitz, months of forced labor, barefoot death marches, and then, early in 1945, he and other prisoners were crammed into a frigid cattle car for transport from Poland to the Buchenwald concentration camp in Germany. He lost consciousness and woke up five days later in the barracks, barely able to move. There, he was told that someone had pulled his body out of a pile of corpses stacked by Buchenwald’s crematorium. “I was frozen; they thought I was dead,” he recalls. “I was the age of 21. I weighed 72 pounds.”

In His Own Words
“I was the age of 21. I weighed 72 pounds.”

Now 91, he harbors no hatred for the Germans. “My humble explanation for all the tragedies and the bad people who want just to kill is that maybe there have to be some bad things in order to appreci­ate all the good things that this world gives you,” says Harvey, who went on to be a cosmetologist to the stars, working in New York before coming to Los Angeles in 1950. He owned two salons, including the Continental House of Beauty in Beverly Hills, doing hair for Judy Garland, Mary Martin, Zsa Zsa Gabor and a young Liza Minnelli.

One of six children, Harvey grew up in a wine­growing region in Czechoslovakia. Life was not easy — his father was always ill, his mother supported the family as a dressmaker and Harvey started working at a vineyard when he was 10. Two years later, Harvey heard Hitler on the radio: “He said, ‘I’m going to kill every Jew in this world.’ ”

Bill Harvey as a child.

Those words seemed very real on a day seven years later, when the Germans knocked on their door and gave the family five minutes to gather a few possessions and leave. The next stop was a ghetto, and six weeks later, they were crammed into a cattle car bound for Poland. “I cannot tell you what a terrible journey it was,” recalls Harvey, weeping as he remembers his arrival at Auschwitz. “It looked like a Twilight Zone. Big chimneys going to the sky. Smoke was going all over. We didn’t know where the smoke was coming from — that they were burning human beings.” On that awful day, Harvey lost his mother, his aunt and many cousins. And the next 18 months were filled with suffering.

Though recalling his Holocaust experience is wrenching, Harvey feels he has “no choice” but to share it. “This story can­ not die,” he says. “I have to be strong enough to tell it.” — Peter Flax

Harvey as a teenager before the war.

Robert Clary

A French survivor best known for his role on TV's 'Hogan’s Heroes.'

Clary, 89, can discuss the Holocaust without exposing obvious emotion, but that serenity dissolves as he recounts his 1942 arrival at Auschwitz. He was 16. The cattle ­car doors swung open, and SS guards were screaming at inmates to get out and sit on the ground. “My mother said the most remarkable thing,” recalls Clary. “She said, ‘Behave.’ She probably knew me as a brat. She said, ‘Behave. Do what they tell you to do.’ ” Clary needs a moment to regain his composure after recounting this final conversation with his mother, who was killed that day with his father in the gas chamber. Of 14 family members who were deported to the camp, he was the only one who survived to see liberation.

In His Own Words
“I stopped having nightmares the moment I opened my mouth.”

Clary was born into a strict Orthodox family in Paris, but the childhood he recalls was full of joy. From a young age, he was a determined entertainer. He’d go on to find success after the war — as a singer and an actor on Broadway, TV and film (he’s best known for his role as the French patriot Cpl. LeBeau on Hogan’s Heroes, which is set in a German POW camp).

Clary’s passion to entertain helped sustain him during his darkest moments. At Buchenwald, he sang with an accordionist every other Sunday to an audience of SS soldiers. Clary feels certain that his singing gave him a purpose and an escape and thus helped save his life: “Singing, entertaining and being in kind of good health at my age, that’s why I survived,” he says. “I was very immature and young and not really fully realizing what situation I was involved with. … I don’t know if I would have survived if I really knew that.”

Robert Clary as a child.

Survival wasn’t easy. He was forced into labor at a prison shoe factory in Germany that the Allies bombed regularly. And with the war’s end looming, the Nazis ordered Clary and other prisoners on an arduous death march from Poland to Germany. Clary says that only 1,500 of the 4,000 prisoners who started were alive at its completion. “All the others died on the road.”

For decades, as he settled into a new life in America and his career took off, Clary chose not to discuss what he had been through. But in the 1980s, after he saw a documentary about a woman who had survived Auschwitz, he signed on with the Wiesenthal Center and began sharing his story. Says Clary, “I stopped hav­ing nightmares the moment I opened my mouth.” — P.F.

Clary (center) clowned around on the set of 'Hogan’s Heroes' in 1969.

Ruth Posner

A Polish survivor who became a member of the Royal Shakespeare Company.

London-based Posner, an 82-year-old Polish survivor who arrived in the U.K. after the war and went on to become a member of the Royal Shakespeare Company, escaped the Warsaw Ghetto with her aunt at the age of 9 with falsified passports. (Her nonobservant parents subsequently were murdered at the Treblinka extermination camp.) “Now when I talk about it, it seems like I’m describing my role in a play,” she says of the day on a march to a public bathhouse in the center of town when they casually walked from the Jewish to the Aryan sides of the street without being seen by SS patrolmen. There, they shed their yellow-starred armbands and disappeared into their new identities — in her case, as Irena Slabowska (a name her aunt picked). “Years later, when I became an actress, I was told that was my best performance because I had to remember my text, I had to remember who I was, and I had to actually act as another person.”

In Her Own Words
"Once we got to the other side, we took off the armbands — and from there on I was a different person."

During her three years on the run, she continued to inhabit the role: pretending to suffer from tuberculosis as an alibi for seeking shelter in a peasant’s countryside cottage and kneeling bedside at night while reciting the Lord’s Prayer verbatim like a good Catholic girl. “It was how we survived.”

Once she settled in England, attending the London College of Dance and Drama, she kept quiet about her Holocaust experience for years. “I didn’t want to be a victim, and I didn’t want to tell anyone because I was afraid they wouldn’t believe me,” says Posner, who didn’t even discuss it with her British husband, Michael, whom she married in 1950. “It was too dramatic.”

Ruth Posner as a child.

Her thinking evolved in the early 1990s, around the time she starred in the German touring run of British playwright Julia Pascal’s acclaimed Theresa, based on a true story about a Jewish woman betrayed by Nazi collaborators during the war. In Frankfurt, a newspaper story noted that the father of the actor who played her son had been a Nazi. “After the performance, people were throwing flowers,” remembers Posner. “They were just so moved by the fact that there were the two of us, holding hands. I have never in my life and never will again have such a reception.”

That moment indeed might have been a high-water mark. The pronounced rise in recent years of European anti-Semitism has, she explains, given her yet “a renewed impetus not only to talk about [her experience] but to scream about it. My whole life was changed. I lost everyone.” — Gary Baum

Posner is a founding member of the London Contemporary Dance Company.

Dario Gabbai

A Greek survivor who is now the world's last living Sonderkommando.

“I have inside some stuff I can never tell,” says Gabbai, nearly whisper­ing. “I saw so many things. Even now, I like to cry to get it out of my system. But it doesn’t go out.”

Tears pool in Gabbai’s eyes — eyes that absorbed atrocities no other living person has seen. He spent nine months at Auschwitz working as a member of a Sonderkommando (special unit) that was forced, under the threat of death, to help operate the gas chambers and crematoria. During those nine months, Gabbai witnessed the murder of at least 600,000 Jews up close. “It is a terrible thing to see 2,500 people dead when you saw them alive a half an hour before,” he says.

In His Own Words
"It is a terrible thing to see 2,500 people dead when you saw them alive a half an hour before.”

Gabbai grew up in Thessaloniki, Greece, where he attended an Italian school and began work at a newspaper where his father was a typographer. But then the Nazis came. In March 1944, Gabbai’s family was crammed into a cattle car bound for Auschwitz. There, they faced a selection by the infamous Dr. Josef Mengele — Gabbai, 21, and his brothers were pointed one way; his mother and father the other. But his younger brother, who was 12 or 13 at the time and terrified, rushed to his parents’ side. Gabbai never saw the three of them again.

By all accounts, Gabbai, now 93, is the last living Sonderkommando. His older brother and two cousins were among a few dozen Greek Jews who were commanded to do unimaginable things — coaxing prison­ers into the gas chambers, moving bodies to the crematoria, dumping ashes in the nearby Vistula River. He recalls seeing two friends from Thessaloniki, and all he could do was tell them where to stand in the gas chamber to minimize their suffering. Afterward, he buried their ashes in a garden.

Gabbai family, circa 1920s.

In January 1945, when the Nazis evacuated Auschwitz, Gabbai and other prisoners were subjected to a death march (“We were freezing. I don’t know how I didn’t pass away there”) and then another cattle­ car ride to a camp in Austria. Liberated in May 1945, he moved to the U.S. under the sponsorship of the Jewish community in Cleveland, then relocated to Los Angeles in 1951. Gabbai, who loved to exercise outside for decades, has never left. Though the bulk of his work was outside the entertainment business, he did have a small role in the 1953 war flick The Glory Brigade — his photo album contains snapshots of him on set with Victor Mature and a young Lee Marvin. He also has pictures of himself with Steven Spielberg; Gabbai was prominently featured in Spielberg’s 1998 documentary The Last Days as well as a 2005 BBC film series on the Holocaust.

Despite how many times he has told his story, Gabbai still struggles to explain how he survived nine months in hell. He says that he tried “not to think” and often talked to himself, seeking strength in verbal affirmation. “I said to myself from the beginning, ‘This war will be ending one day,’ ” he recalls. “And the world will be much better by telling them exactly what was happening.” — P.F.

Gabbai and his cousin, Morris. They survived nine months in Auschwitz together.

Celina Biniaz

A Polish survivor who was a real-life member of Oskar Schindler’s list.

When Steven Spielberg was considering Liam Neeson for the lead role of the savior industrialist in Schindler’s List, there was concern that the star was too attractive to play the part. So then­-MCA/Universal head Sid Sheinberg reached out to the executive vp of his concert division, Robert Biniaz, who called his mother, Celina — a real­-life member of the list — for input: “I told them that Mr. Schindler was very handsome, so he gets the job.”

Celina Biniaz, now 84, observes that “Schindler saved my life,” but Spielberg “gave me a voice” following a half­century of near silence. For years, “I didn’t want to tell them,” she says of sharing the searing details of her experience with friends and family. “I didn’t want to put a guilt shtick on them. My mother used to always say, ‘The world owes you nothing.’ ” Since the film’s release, Biniaz has been a key supporter of Spielberg’s Shoah Foundation, which grew out of his work on the film. (Her testimony later was included as an extra on the gird against Schindler’s List DVD to help Holocaust deniers.)

In Her Own Words
“The first time I went to Auschwitz was in a box car. This time I went to Auschwitz in business class.”

Born in Krakow, Poland, the only child of a pair of accountants, Biniaz and her parents were forced into a labor camp called Plaszow and worked in factories belonging to an associate of Schindler’s — her parents as bookkeepers, she as part of a child’s cooperative making envelopes and brushes. When that associate decided to shut down his factory, Schindler put hundreds of its employees on his now-­famous list. But soon after that, his female employees would be erroneously sent to Auschwitz, where Biniaz lived one of the film’s most indelible scenes, in which the women, seeing “the fiery plumes in the sky,” assumed the worst when herded together into a group shower cham­ber, but “fortunately water comes out and we figure we have another lease on life.” At another moment, during one of the notorious Dr. Josef Mengele’s selec­tions, she was chosen to die. “I guess my survival kicked in,” she says. “The will to live. I just looked at him and I said three words — ‘lass mich gehen’ — which in German is, ‘Let me go.’ He pushed his pencil the other way, and I ran out naked into the snow.”

Celina with her mother, 1933.

In time, she would immigrate to Iowa (an uncle lived there), graduate from college (after missing out on formal education between second and 12th grades), spend her adulthood in Long Island and retire to Camarillo, Calif. This year, to mark the 70th anniversary of the liberation of the Nazi camps, she returned to the site where she’d escaped slaughter. “The first time I went to Auschwitz was in a box car,” she says. “This time I went to Auschwitz in business class.” — G.B.

Biniaz as a toddler walking with her father in Krakow.

Leon Prochnik

A Polish survivor who wrote Sidney Lumet's 'Child's Play.'

Prochnik was 6 and on a family vacation away from their Krakow home when his father, the owner of one of the largest chocolate factories in Eastern Europe, received a telegram from an employee. It was 1939, just days after Germany had invaded Poland. The Nazis were looking for him.

The Prochniks never returned, eventually slipping away through Lithuania, hopping the Trans-Siberian Railway across the Soviet Union to Japan, taking a boat to Canada and, a year and a half later — after being held up by U.S. Customs (“America would not let Jewish refugees in at that point; it was not a very proud moment in America’s history”) — finally settling in New York with the help of a Yankee uncle. “It was the first night I remember sleeping without my fists being clenched,” Prochnik says of his arrival.

In His Own Words
“America would not let Jewish refugees in at that point; it was not a very proud moment in America’s history.”

The epic journey was punctuated by fraught moments internalized as only the child of a chocolatier could. Prochnik — who went on to a Hollywood career as a screenwriter (Child’s Play, directed by Sidney Lumet) as well as a trailer editor on films like All That Jazz and Tommy — had loved to visit the giant tub in which the factory melted industrial-sized chunks of cocoa, sticking his arm in to his elbow, “then I’d lick it all off.” He privately named it Milka, coming to believe during his time on the run that it had magical powers and repeatedly returning to his happy place when breakthroughs emerged: the moment his father finally connected with the Lithuania-based, transit visa-bestowing diplomat Chiune Sugihara (the “Japanese Schindler”), the point when a bayonet-wielding German officer with a scar on his face that looked like a snake (“You remember these things”) missed his mother’s Hebrew prayer book on an otherwise thorough search of their belongings.

Prochnik as a child.

Yet Prochnik, now 82 and living in Los Angeles, also was haunted as a child by his imaginary savior. “I had a dream about Milka one night where she was as big as a lake,” he says of the tub, which these days still is in use — as a storytelling device he deploys in regular speaking gigs to engage schoolkids to begin to digest the enormity of the Holocaust’s horror. (A book, Milka & Me, will be released in the spring.) “She invited me to swim, and there was my friend, Oleg, a Lithuanian Jewish boy who had stayed because his family would not think of leaving Poland. What Milka was telling me was that this boy would not survive the war.” — G.B.

Prochnik (right) and his family started running while on vacation and never returned to their home in Krakow.

Meyer Gottlieb

A Polish survivor who is now the president of Samuel Goldwyn Films.

Gottlieb can picture the wintry night his father wrapped the body of his baby brother in a tallis (prayer shawl) and carried it from a Ukrainian labor camp into the woods for a proper burial. Gottlieb was 3 or 4. He also remembers watching his father being taken away in a black bus, conscripted by the Russian military to fight the Germans near the end of the war. He would never see him again. “I have no memories of joyous events,” says Gottlieb. “The first real memories of a childhood I have are after I came to America.”

Gottlieb, now 76 and president of Samuel Goldwyn Films, was born in Poland shortly after Germany invaded that country in 1939. His father, who had been an officer in the Polish army during the Nazis’ rout, returned to his village and tried to persuade relatives and neighbors to flee immediately. Few listened. Gottlieb’s family loaded up horse­drawn wagons and headed into the forest. They were on the run for many months, retreating with the Russians before winding up in a Ukrainian labor camp.

In His Own Words
“The truth of the matter is that the weapons of massive destruction are not bombs — they're hatred, intolerance and bigotry.”

Gottlieb did not return to his village until 2008, when he visited a nearby site where the relatives who stayed behind — his grandparents, seven aunts and uncles, dozens of cousins — had perished. After a stay in a temporary ghetto, they were “marched [by Nazis] through the center of town, into the woods, forced to dig open graves and were all shot and killed,” says Gottlieb. “We were able to find the three mass graves where there were women, children and men separated.” Tears swell as he recalls performing a yizkor (mourning prayer) service for the dead at that grave, six decades after 90 percent of his family was eliminated. “It’s very difficult to understand and explain,” he says. “The truth of the matter is that the weapons of massive destruction are not bombs — they’re hatred, intolerance and bigotry.”

Following four years in Ukrainian camps, Gottlieb and his mother were expelled with thousands of refugees to a displaced ­person camp in the U.S. sector in Germany; Stalin didn’t want the Jews, either. After another stretch behind barbed wire, the family was about to immigrate to Israel when a great aunt in Los Angeles spotted their name on a Red Cross list and sponsored their journey to America. “I feel like I have two lives,” says Gottlieb. “I was born in Poland initially, and I was born again in America.”

Meyer (on left) and his older brother, Aaron, 1946.

He went on to a successful Hollywood career, pro­ducing such films as Master and Commander and The Secret Life of Walter Mitty (2013). A pivotal moment came in 2003 as he helped promote Rosenstrasse, a film about Christian women who protested in Berlin to save their Jewish husbands in 1943. As he encountered people claiming disinterest in the topic because of “Holocaust overload,” Gottlieb realized he had to tell his story and began to do appearances on behalf of the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum.

“As a survivor, you have to prove that there is a reason for your existence,” says Gottlieb. “You are driven to justify the fact that you survived what others did not. And part of that justification is to do something that will help repair the world.” — P.F.

Meyer’s parents, Neehama and Schlomo Gottlieb, 1937.

Branko Lustig

A Croatian survivor who won best picture Oscars for 'Schindler's List' and 'Gladiator.'

Producer Lustig’s journey took him from Nazi death camps to triumph at the Oscars, where he twice won the Academy Award for best picture.

It was a week after he arrived in Auschwitz when the course of his life would change. The guards had erected gallows to hang seven prisoners. Lustig stood in the front row. “Moments before they were hanged, before the bench was kicked out from them, they all said as one: ‘Remember how we died and tell to the world how we died and tell the story about us,’ ” says Lustig. “This, I remember.”

In His Own Words
“I remembered the words: 'Tell to the world how we lived and how we died.' I took this as a task in my life.”

Now 83, Lustig has never for­gotten. After his camp was liberated — Lustig was 12 and recalls the sound of the bagpipes as the British Army marched in, thinking, “I had died finally, and that was the angels’ music in heaven” — he was miraculously reunited with his mother, one of the few members of his family to survive the Holocaust. It was “a miracle, a fortune,” says Lustig. “You see in all my life there has always been something of fortune, dedi­cation, destiny.”

It was destiny, he believes, that took him back to his homeland of Croatia, where he was born and where, after decades of living in Los Angeles, he has returned with his wife of 45 years and their adult daughter to the capital, Zagreb; destiny that brought Lustig to the film business in Europe, where he helped make such movies about the rise of fascism and the Holocaust as The Tin Drum and Sophie’s Choice.

Branko Lustig, circa 1937.

“I remembered the words: ‘Tell to the world how we lived and how we died,’ ” he says. “I took this as a task in my life.” This task brought him to America in 1988 to help produce War and Remembrance, an Emmy-­winning miniseries starring Robert Mitchum and Jane Seymour. In Los Angeles, he met Steven Spielberg, who was devel­oping Schindler’s List. “I told him my life, details about the camps,” says Lustig. “He kissed my number [from the concentration camp, tattooed on Lustig’s arm] and said, ‘You will be my producer.’ He is the man who gave me the possibility to fulfill my obligation.”

Lustig donated the Oscar he won for Schindler’s List to Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust memo­rial in Jerusalem. And together with Spielberg, he set up the Shoah Foundation to record the testimony of more than 50,000 Holocaust survivors. Lustig’s film career has been impressive — he produced six films with Ridley Scott alone, including Gladiator, which won Lustig his second best picture Oscar — but he sees the Shoah Foundation as his greatest achievement. “People say today around the world that [the Holocaust] doesn’t exist. And it’s important that we not forget, never forget. If you forget it, they will have really beat you.” — Scott Roxborough

Lustig (center) on the set of 'Schindler’s List' in 1993.

Curt Lowens

A Polish Survivor with more than 120 acting credits, including many roles as Nazis.

Before veteran character actor Lowens became a go-to player of Nazis across stage and screen — from Dr. Josef Mengele in the play The Deputy on Broadway to an SS general on Wonder Woman on CBS — he was Curt Loewenstein, a Polish teen living with his parents in Berlin, his bar mitzvah postponed when the synagogue burned down during Kristallnacht in November 1938. The family nearly fled to England by way of Holland, but the Reich conquered the Dutch days before they were set to leave, and the Loewensteins were soon swept into the Westerbork concentration camp.

In His Own Words
"When I came home my mother took me to the window and said there is not going to be a bar mitzvah — the synagogue is burning down."

“I remember distinctly the reading of the [deportation] lists on Monday night, the crying and many times screaming and separation of family of who was on the cattle car on Tuesday morning at 1 a.m.,” says Lowens, now 90. Fortunately, his family had paperwork indicating that they were not to be deported yet, which brought them a release. Soon the son took on a new identity as a small-town teacher named Ben Joosten, joining a three-person cell of the Dutch resistance that would, in time, be credited with saving 123 lives by delivering Jewish children (and a few adults) to families who hid them.

By V-E Day, he had rescued and found safe shelter for two downed American airmen who had landed in a nearby field — he received a commendation from Gen. Eisenhower — and, as an interpreter for the advancing British Army, helped place Karl Donitz (Hitler’s designated successor as president) and key minister Albert Speer under house arrest. “My sanity turned around,” observes Lowens, recalling “the Gestapo knocking on doors,” whereas by liberation, “I now knocked on doors.”

Curt Lowens as a teenager.

In time, he turned to Hollywood, bringing his wartime experience with him, whether when telling Oscar-winning director Robert Wise (The Sound of Music, West Side Story) during his successful audition for The Hindenburg that he’d witnessed the airship over Berlin — “He says, ‘You did? Sit down, tell me about it!’ ” — or in performing Nazi roles. “As a survivor, they now serve the memory of what some of them did or didn’t do, the horror of eliminating the millions,” he says. “I am lucky to be here and tell you some of the story.” — G.B.

After liberation, Lowens worked as an interpreter for the British Army.

Dr. Ruth Westheimer

A German survivor who became America’s foremost sex therapist, Dr. Ruth.

On Jan. 5, 1939, Westheimer’s mother and paternal grandmother took her to the Frankfurt station and put her on a train. She was 10 and bound for a children’s home in Switzerland, a beneficiary of the Kindertransport program that originated in Britain and got tens of thousands of Jewish children out of Nazi Germany before the war. “[They] waved goodbye,” she says. “And that’s the last time I saw them.”

She had hugged her father, an Orthodox Jew who ran a notions shop, two months earlier — soon after Kristallnacht, he was shipped out to a work camp. She would never see him again, either.

In Her Own Words
“Looking at my four grandchildren: Hitler lost and I won.”

An only child, Westheimer, now 87 and known worldwide as sex therapist Dr. Ruth, exchanged letters with her parents and grandmother until September 1941, when their letters stopped. Her family likely perished at Auschwitz. “It was very difficult in the home,” she says. “But we created a community, a family.”

Ruth Westheimer's first day of school before the war.

At age 17, Ruth left Switzerland for then-British-controlled Palestine to join the Haganah, the precursor to the Israel Defense Force. She was only 4-foot-7, but she trained as a sniper. “I never killed anyone,” she reassures. In 1950, she moved to Paris, where she studied psychology at the Sorbonne and taught kindergarten. She received a restitution check in 1956 from the West German government and left for New York, where she earned a scholarship from the New School of Social Research and met Manfred Westheimer (they raised two children and were married until his death in 1997).

A pioneering media personality, Westheimer busted the taboo of talking about sex in explicit detail — in an unforgettable accent — first on her radio show (beginning in 1980 on NBC-owned WYNY) and then on her many TV shows (on Lifetime and in national and international syndication).

“People like me need to stand up and be counted to repair the world,” she says. Westheimer’s story contains lots of loss, but she insists it’s also full of hope: “Looking at my four grandchildren: Hitler lost and I won.” — Marisa Guthrie

Westheimer (center, standing), an orphan of the Holocaust, spent the rest of the war at a Swiss children’s home.
Producer: Peter Flax
Lead Writer: Gary Baum
Writers: Scott Roxborough, Marisa Guthrie, Andy Lewis

Video & Photo: Jennifer Laski, Michelle Stark, Samantha Xu, Victoria Mckillop, Stephanie Fischette, Natalie Heltzel, Ryan Heraly, Ryan Maples, Tom Green, Philip Narvaez, Chris O’Konski, Jan RÖdger

Digital Experience: Dan Strauss, Shanti Marlar, Tom Seeley, Nathan McGowan, David Gruhin, Rett Alcott, Annie Howard, Meena Jang, Reed Hallstrom, Jennifer Liles

Stills and footage courtesy of
Bill Harvey
Branko Lustig
Celina Biniaz
Dario Gabbai
Dr. Ruth Westheimer
Leon Prochnik
Meyer Gottlieb
The Curt Lowens Collection, courtesy of the Rodgers Center for Holocaust Education at Chapman University
USC Shoah Foundation
Simon Wiesenthal Center
Los Angeles Museum of the Holocaust in Pan Pacific Park
The Museum of Tolerance
Steven Spielberg Film and Video Archive, United States Holocaust Memorial Museum
Special thanks to