The following is the transcript of a speech given by Holocaust survivor, Presidential Medal of Freedom recipient, and Citizenship Counts founder, Gerda Weissman Klein at the 66th Annual National Conference on Citizenship, immediately following the naturalization of 20 new Americans. Mrs. Klein tells her story of liberation from a Nazi concentration camp by an American solider who would later become her husband, and subsequently, what America, and being American, has come to mean to her. Video of the speech in its entirety is available here, with summary clips displayed in the video player above.
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My Fellow Citizens,
Congratulations to you for having been born with freedom as your birthright.

I know that all of you reflect this moment of fulfillment and perhaps a spark of the sort when first it occurred to you, as a thought or a dream, to become an American. I do not know what is in all your hearts and all your lives—I could only guess perhaps a bit, and I know that one day you will share it with your children, and grandchildren, and perhaps with the community at-large.

But I hope that you will permit me—perhaps all of you, who have taken this incredible, blessed gift for granted—to tell you of my own moment what it means to me to be a part of you... an American.

Obviously, you have guessed by my accent that I did not come on the Mayflower. I was 15 years old when the world I knew and loved, and was part of, was irrevocably destroyed when the Nazis took our town in Poland. It was like a tsunami. I lost everyone I knew and loved—my beloved parents, my only brother, my uncles, my aunts, my cousins, my friends, were set adrift to a succession of slave labor and concentration camps. You all know the tragedy of World War II quite well, and I shall not dwell upon it. But I should like to recoil the incredible moment of my liberation.

After 3 years of ghetto life, 3 years of slave labor in concentration camp, and a march known in history books simply as the “Death March,” on which we were forced in January of 1945 as the American, the British, and the Russian forces were crushing Germany to an ultimate defeat. We were 4,000 young girls on the 29th of January 1945. At its conclusion on the dawn of May 7th, there were fewer than 120 left. I was one of them.

Our captors decided to destroy the last witnesses of their deeds by locking us in abandoned bicycle factory and attaching a time bomb. I am fully aware it sounds like a cheap thriller. I remember that night, our prayers, our hopes—we had come so far. Are we not going to know the feel of freedom?

Suddenly, almost miraculously, it started to rain—a torrential rain, dissolving in mud. Obviously, the bomb never went off. At dawn, there were shouts “If anyone is there, get out! The war in Europe is over!”

What do you feel at such a moment? I recall no feeling at all. I don’t know if God, in His providential wisdom, creates an emotional vacuum at such a time. I was not quite able to separate the dream of six years from reality.

Suddenly, I saw a strange car coming down a gentle hill. And it’s with no longer the despised Swastika, but the white star of the American Army. Two men in strange uniforms sat in that vehicle. One jumped out, came running toward me. I looked at that man who granted me freedom, in awe, in disbelief. Of course, I was still a little bit frightened. So I did what I was told we needed to do. I looked at him, and I said in a small and frightened voice, “We are Jewish, you know.”

For a long time, though it seems, he didn’t answer me. And finally his own voice betrayed his emotion, as he said, “So am I.”

And then, he asked an incredible question. He asked if he could see the other ladies—a form of address obviously unknown to us. I told him that most of the girls were inside, too ill to walk. He asked me to come with him. And by doing so, did something which, at first, I didn’t understand. And when I understood it, I could not believe it. He simply held the door open for me and let me proceed him. And in this symbolic gesture, he restored me to humanity again.

I should like to give you a picture of that moment. I weighed 68 pounds. My hair was white. I was in rags. I had not had a bath in 3 years. I was going to be 21 the following day. And here was this very handsome young American, holding the door open for me. By what miracle could I have predicted that I’ll marry him a year later, and he would bring me home to this beloved country.

I love this country. With a love that only one who has been homeless and hungry for as long as I have been can understand. This country has fulfilled dreams I didn’t know how to dream.

I always wanted to be a writer. I came here not being able to speak English. I knew not one person in the United States, only my beloved husband. You have heard a little bit what this country has given to me. I am not Mother Theresa. I didn’t spend my life in the sings of Calcutta helping the homeless. I did not discover the cure for cancer. I am not a wealthy woman. I lived in what I thought was the most beautiful city in the world in Buffalo, New York. And please don’t laugh—I love Buffalo and I love this country, but Phoenix now is my home, because my children are here. I’ve had the privilege of raising 3 children, and one granddaughter who now took over the work which is so dear to my very heart.

I lost my beloved husband 9 years ago. And in all the work that I have been privileged to be engaged in, having been deprived of so much, I came to the conclusion that there is one thing that I must do for whatever more time is allotted to me. And I am 87 years old. And this is with the help of some of my friends in this place, and my granddaughter Alysa, we established Citizenship Counts to teach. To teach our young people and everyone the greatness, the majesty, that incredible thing which is America where everything is possible. Everything.

Just think of it, my dear friends. Just a couple of days ago, two Americans were released after being held for over 2 years in Iran. And our entire country, our embassies around the world, put everything into motion to get our people back. One American becomes a symbol of what America is all about: life, freedom, and justice.

I hope that I have not invaded your lives too much. I just want to give you, perhaps, a bit of my own incredible joy which rises to my own heart when I have the privilege of taking the oath which you just took, and become a part of our blessed country.

God bless you all. God bless the United States of America. Thank you very much, indeed.