I was born Rosemarie Katarina Ingeborg Lengsfeld on October 13, 1930, at Fordham Hospital in New York City. My mother told me, many years later, that I was a captivating baby with a strong will and ever-curious eyes.

When I was almost four years old, my parents, Herman and Hilde, known to me as Papa and Mutti, took me on my first trip, an exciting voyage across the Atlantic Ocean aboard an ocean liner. We were going to meet my relatives in Germany, the country where my parents were born. Although Papa and Mutti were dedicated to their new life in America and had been living in the United States for years, they did not yet have their final citizenship papers. I did, however, the proud birthright of having been born in America, a nation that welcomed immigrants, new beginnings, and lofty aspirations.

We had traveled to Germany for what Papa said would be only a short stay, maybe a few weeks, a month at most. Papa needed to say goodbye to his father, whose heart was failing. He wanted to introduce me as his American girl, to tell his father that he was loved one last time, and that his family had “made it” in America.

When we arrived at my grandparents’ home in the eastern German city of Breslau, there was a big family party. My German relatives were in great anticipation of meeting me, the headstrong little American girl Papa had written about. I had never seen so many people gathered inside such a small apartment! Playing music I hadn’t heard before and enjoying a tableful of food unfamiliar to me, they all seemed happy to be celebrating our arrival. Although my grandfather was ailing and in a wheelchair, he smiled and stood when he met me, patting me on the back and lifting me high into the air. That made me so happy, but I remember that it also made him so tired he had to immediately sit back down.

With my grandfather elated to be with us, my parents decided to stay a little longer in Germany to be with him during his final days. But he lingered longer than expected. Soon our short stay became months, and then seasons. It didn’t matter to me, however. My days were still bright and cheerful back then, surrounded by my loving relatives who took every opportunity to shower me with activities and attention.

My grandfather passed away peacefully the following year—the first death in my young life. I remember being confused and full of questions at the funeral. I didn’t really understand what death meant or the finality of it all.

At last the day came for us to return home to America. I was so happy to see Papa join Mutti and me in the boarding line, with our return ocean liner tickets in his hand. But the German authorities at the Port of Bremerhaven said we couldn’t board the ship. They told my parents that Germany’s supreme leader, Chancellor Adolf Hitler, had closed the borders to German citizens leaving the country.

My parents reassured me that it would be just weeks before the borders would be reopened and we could return to New York. They were wrong. Months passed, a year, and then two. When the war broke out, all talk of going home ended.

Despite being unable to return home, I remember my first few years in Germany as being happy, even nurturing. After a while I started speaking German instead of English. Papa found work as a buyer in a textile factory. We soon moved out of his parents’ home and into our own little apartment on the east side of Breslau. It was very small, just two rooms, but it had a charming little balcony overlooking a courtyard and garden. I loved going down there to pick flowers when spring came.

I began school in Breslau when I was six, a nearby elementary school I could walk to. Eager to learn and to make friends, I would tell them I was an American, back then, a novelty and topic of curiosity among my teachers and peers. I would race home after school each day to tell my parents of my new friends and what I had learned. I couldn’t wait to go back the next day.

Although life seemed good to me during those first few years, there was chaos all around us in Germany. I was too young to understand it then, but people were becoming increasingly tense and saying angry, shameful things about their neighbors. At first, my parents said nothing to me about what was happening. Maybe they wanted to shelter me from the ugliness taking hold of the country. Still naïve and trusting, I felt safe and protected for a while yet—until the purges began.

I had a friend about my age who lived next door to us. His name was Adam. I didn’t understand why the other children said I shouldn’t play with him. One evening some neighbors came over to talk with my parents, and though I wasn’t supposed to, I listened in to the conversation going on by the front door. The neighbors warned that Adam was Jewish and that I needed to stay away from him.

My parents did not agree. Papa told them I could play with whomever I wanted. Although we were not Jewish, Papa said that Lutherans and Catholics and Jews—and many other faiths he had studied—all believed in the same God. They even shared the same angels. I didn’t know it yet, but my parents were risking everything by telling them that.

Papa’s encouragement to remain friends with Adam wouldn’t really matter, however. I never got another chance to play with him again. Within a few days, Adam and his parents were gone. My parents told me that he and his family had been whisked away to safety before it was too late. They had to be rescued, Papa said.

Rescued? I had to ask my father what that word meant. Rescued from what?

That seems so long ago now, and so innocent. Like an infection, the hateful lies were spreading. People were disappearing—and, I would learn, not all were being rescued. The Nazi tentacles were everywhere. Caught in their web, I feared it was only a matter of time before they found us.