Welcome to TRB Lounge! We’re thrilled to host author Adam Knight today, who will be unveiling an insightful excerpt from their memoir, Made of Iron: The Dina Jacobson Story. Dive in and get an exclusive sneak peek into this beautiful book!

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About the Book

You can find Made of Iron here:
Amazon

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Excerpt

DINA’S STORY

Spring 1998

Stepping into the lecture hall of my high school filled me with a sense o freverence and awe. Ordinary classes on ordinary days took place in ordinary rooms, but the lecture hall was for special events. As a freshman, I had never been inside. I scanned the banked rows of hard-backed plastic seats and the laminated tables that curved in a semicircle around the lighted stage. A pair of chairs sat in the middle of the stage. One, I knew, was for my teacher; the other was for the guest—the guest for this special event.

I took a seat in the second row. I didn’t dare sit in the back row. People who sit in the back row send a certain message to the speaker. I also didn’t sit in the front. That was too close. I was, and will always be, a sit-in-the- second-row type of person. I set my overloaded backpack down by a seat, then plunked myself down. The seat swiveled. How fancy! How collegiate! I could hear the squeaks and groans of all of the other seats in the hall. My classmate who sat next to me commented about how we should have class here every day. I smiled and agreed. It’s just a thing to say.

Recently, in history class, we finished a unit about the Holocaust and genocide. It was the first time I learned about these topics, and as always, I studied and did well on the test. Our teacher, Mr. Adessa, invited this guest speaker to give us a better understanding of the material. Since I had already gotten an A on the test, I did not see how much better understanding I could have, but I welcomed any assembly that broke up the monotony of the school day. I was 15 years old.

Mr. Adessa stepped onto the stage. He was tall, over six feet with a military bearing that made him seem taller still. Mustachioed, hair swept back, he was a man who rarely smiled, I had come to recognize him as a teacher who was tough and demanding and expected more of his students than they realized they could handle. A teacher who would give a B+ to an A student, so the student worked harder to realize what an A requires. Me.

He welcomed us and invited us to sit and pay attention. His students obeyed.

“I have with me here an important guest to our school. She is also a dear friend of mine. In class, you have learned about the Holocaust. You have heard of the Auschwitz concentration camp. You have learned a little bit about what happened to those who survived. I want to introduce you to my friend, Dina. She lives in Elmira, about an hour from here. She has a family there and has lived here in upstate New York for almost 50 years. But before that, she grew up in Poland and—well, I will let her tell her story.”

He escorted a woman to the chairs on the stage. He stooped down to offer an arm, though she did not need it. This woman could not have been more than five feet tall, with curly white hair and piercing eyes. She seemed old, the age of my grandparents, but she moved with a sense of strength and surety that made her seem like she could live forever. She sat in one chair. Mr. Adessa took the other.

“Thank you,” she said, and I immediately heard the Eastern European accent. She faced the audience. “My name is Dina Jacobson, and I was in Auschwitz concentration camp.”

I listened, silent and respectful, as Dina spent the next hour telling us about her life. She told us a few details about growing up on a farm in Poland. She told us about Nazis coming to her hometown and taking her family away, then eventually taking her. Much of her talk consisted of stories about her years in Auschwitz. She told about the abuse she suffered at the hands of guards, about living off of no more than a cup of ersatz coffee and a thin slice of bread each day. She rolled up her sleeve and showed us her forearm, where a number was written in blue ink. I couldn’t see the number clearly, as I was two rows back. Mr. Adessa told us that if we want to come up and see the tattoo up close at the end of the talk, we will have an opportunity. I already knew I would not. That would be too close.

Dina finished her talk by telling us a little about liberation from the camp, and about living in Elmira. Then she took questions, and students wanted to know more about the concentration camps. They wanted details. They wanted to know how terrible it was, and Dina did her best to explain. I asked no questions. I was moved, though not to tears, like some of my classmates. I assumed that this talk, like most educational experiences, will settle into my memory and stay there. I assumed that between the unit in history class and the presentation that day, I learned most of what I needed to know about the Holocaust. I assumed my relationship with Dina would end after the talk, and my relationship with my history teacher would end in June.

About all of these assumptions, I was completely wrong.

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About The Author

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