My name is Abram Cohen. But on August 22, 1939, I became Augustus Coelhagen. My identity soon became lost, along with the lives of millions.

                             * Late Summer, 1939 *

          I shake nervously in the unseasonably cold basement, knowing I am seconds away from betraying my faith, my family, and myself. I know it is an extreme measure, but my situation is also extreme. I could die if I do not follow through with this, and that is something I cannot risk….Trying to slow my heavy breathing, I stare down at my brown tattered shoes. I am suddenly brought back to attention by hushed footsteps coming towards me. Manfrit Kuegler.
            The short, stout man sits across from me at the big wooden table. In the lamplight, his face seems to be on the brink of boredom. He pulls a blank birth certificate from a drawer and I feel my pulse quicken.
     “What would you like to be called?”
The coolness in his voice reminds me of how many times he must have done this. I think of the date, August 22, 1939, and know I will never forget it.
       I hesitate. ”Augustus Coelhagen.”
       “Birthdate?”
       I add 2 days to my own. “February 5, 1918.”
       “Parents’ names?”
        “Aaron and Mallory Coelhagen.”
         This is the last question he asks.
        In the dead of night, Abram Cohen dies.
        In the dead of night, Augustus Coelhagen is born.
       In the dead of night, my life changes forever.
       According to my documents I am no longer Jewish, I am no longer a Cohen, and I no longer know who I am.

                             * January, 1940 *

        I do not really know what I am in for when the men in stiff uniforms tell me I have been enlisted. All I know is we are leaving immediately. It is quite horrifying how changing one thing can alter the trajectory of your life.
        Soon, I am in the back of a truck with about 15 other men. They speak of Adolf HItler in reverent tones. I pretend to agree that he is correct. That he is correct about my people not having a place or purpose in this world.
                                    *************
         We pull up to a bleak, grey, lifeless area, barricaded off by barbed wire. I stare at the twisted spikes as I wait to unload.
1-2-3-4, I count them in a far-off daze, 5-6-7…
          “Geh raus! Get out!”
           I break from my trance and step into broad daylight. No one knows my life is a lie, but still I find myself feeling anxious and guilty. A black void seems to be filling the space where Abram Cohen used to be.

                                  *January, 1941*

              After a year in the concentration camp, killing people who once shared my faith, the life is slowly sucked out of me. My mind soon has no control over my actions, and shooting people seems to become an involuntary action. As simple as breathing. 365 days at the camp. Over 365 lives lost.
              Role is about to start, so I quicken my pace and get a better grip on my Mauser Rifle. Every day I dread role call. At least one person is shot. At least.
              We go down the line, inspecting the prisoners, each one wavering in their stance more than the last. We stop at a little girl, her tired and weak shoulders drooping like withered flower petals. She collapses, our heavy gaze weighing her down.
              Her big chestnut eyes look up in fear as the Commandant shouts.
              “Shoot her! She’s not strong enough to be here!”
                I point my gun at the lifeless ball laying on the frosty ground. She shivers in the cold and I catch a glimmer of my old self in her eyes.
               “Let’s take her her to the infirmary. Maybe we can get her healthy enough to do more work.”
                With a sigh, the Commandant nods his head, and I know this is one small victory for me.
                                        *************
            After role call is through, I march over to the little girl. She slowly stands up and we walk to the infirmary. I have to maintain my officer mentality, but as soon as we get to the hostile room the disguise fades away.
              “What is your name?” I speak softly so our conversation isn’t overheard.
              “20897-”
               I stop her mid-phrase, “Not your number, your name.”
              “Elisa.”
               I smile, “What a pretty name! My name is Augustus Coelhagen, but it used to be Abram Cohen. I used to be Jewish, too, but they enlisted me and now I’m lost...” She seems confused so I explain my motive. “I’m going to get you out of here. I figure we both shouldn’t be stuck here if we don’t have to be.”
             She remains quiet but I see hope peek through her face. I know then, that I too am regaining faith in a future other than this.
                                    ************
              For over a week, I have snuck out to visit Elisa almost every day.  We discuss our plan, making sure we can execute it flawlessly.
             Step 1: Elisa pretends to get sicker as the days wear on
             Step 2: After 3 more days, January 31st, she pretends to die in her sleep
             Step 3: I collect the bodies from the infirmary that day
             Step 4: While loading the corpses into the train, I throw her towards the back, where a hole has been carved
             Step 5: She slips out the hole and runs for her life

                            *January 31, 1941*

             The first two steps of the plan are through, thanks to Elisa’s brilliant performance. Now it is my turn.
             With a wagon creaking in front of me, I make my way through the rundown hospital. I reach my last stop. Room 107. Elisa.
               I gently place her on top of the cold bodies and give a subtle wink. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.
Into the cool air we go, reaching the rusty behemoth all too quickly. I throw her in and fight back tears at the thought I will never see her again. I will never see Elisa, the girl who brought me back to the hopeful man I once was.

                               *July 18, 1947*

              In the bright New York sun, I am once again Abram Cohen. A world of hate and terror behind me, I know I can finally be free. I smile at the 2-month-old baby sleeping in the pram before me. Elisa Cohen, born in 1946.

                   Just 1½ years after I left the camp.

                             Finally, I am found.