WINNER OF THE 1989 CHRISTOPHER AWARD  •  Here is a thrilling, uplifting story of true-life heroism unequaled since the publication of Anne Frank's diary—a story that the young must hear and their elders must remember. Take Alicia's hand—and follow. “This memoir is heartbreaking. I hope it will be read by Jews and non-Jews alike.”—Elie Wiesel, author of Night Her name is Alicia. She was thirteen when she began saving the lives of people she did not know—while fleeing the Nazis through war-ravaged Poland. Her family cruelly wrenched from her, Alicia rescued other Jews from the Gestapo, led them to safe hideouts, and lent them her courage and hope. Even the sight of her mother's brutal murder could not quash this remarkable child's faith in human goodness—or her determination to prevail against overwhelming odds. After the war, Alicia continued to risk her life, leading Polish Jews on an underground route to freedom in Palestine. She swore on her brother's grave that if she survived, she would speak for her silenced family. This book is the eloquent fulfillment of that oath. Praise for Alicia “Profoundly observed . . . remarkably lived . . . ferocious bravery.” — The New York Times Book Review “As exciting as it is inspirational. In fact, a good bit of Alicia: My Story  reads as if it were written by one of our better writers of fiction.” — The Pittsburgh Press “A compelling voice, lucid prose . . . a luminous testimony to the heroism and humanity of one remarkable person.” — San Francisco Chronicle “Straightforward . . . energizing and inspirational.” — Newsday “This memoir is heartbreaking. I hope it will be read by Jews and non-Jews alike.” —Elie Wiesel, author of  Night “Profoundly observed . . . remarkably lived . . . ferocious bravery.” — The New York Times Book Review “As exciting as it is inspirational. In fact, a good bit of  Alicia: My Story  reads as if it were written by one of our better writers of fiction.” — The Pittsburgh Press “A compelling voice, lucid prose . . . a luminous testimony to the heroism and humanity of one remarkable person.” — San Francisco Chronicle “Straightforward . . . energizing and inspirational.” — Newsday Alicia Appleman  was a writer and lecturer. She was the author of Alicia: My Story . She died in 2017. CHAPTER 1 Before the War   First they killed my brother Moshe.…   Then they killed my father.…   Then they killed my brother Bunio.…   Then they killed my brother Zachary.…   Then they killed my last brother, Herzl.   Only my mother and I were left. I vowed that I would never let them kill her, that I would protect my mother from the Nazis and their collaborators for as long as I lived.   Love and hate were what motivated my young mind and heart. Love for my dear, gentle mother—and hate for the cruel murderers.   And this is my story.     In 1938, there were eighteen thousand Jewish people in our Polish city of Buczacz, nearly one-third of the total population. Some of the more orthodox Jews wore the classic black frock coats and fur hats, while others dressed just like the rest of the residents and were largely well-integrated into the community.   We had many things to be proud of: the Hebrew schools, the Talmud Torah house, and our joy and pride, the Great Synagogue. It was a very impressive large structure with tall stained-glass windows. It had a small synagogue attached to one side, giving the impression of a father and son standing there proudly. The small synagogue was used for daily prayers, and the large synagogue for the Sabbath and the rest of the holidays.   I was quite familiar with the synagogue, since my older brother Bunio sang in the choir. We had a handsome young rabbi with a beautiful wife, and both were accomplished violinists. The rabbi chose his choir from among the students with good voices who attended Mr. Kofler’s Hebrew school. My brother Bunio, who was an alto, was selected, and so was his friend David, who was a soprano. They were both soloists during the High Holiday prayers. I often listened to their rehearsals, sitting in the semi-darkness of the balcony, where the ladies prayed. My brother’s voice would reach into the depth of my soul and carry me off into the beauty of its words and melody.   It was in this synagogue that Bunio had his Bar Mitzvah. Bunio’s beautiful voice was a sensation. Of course Mama and I had to watch from upstairs, but we could see and hear everything. My youngest brother, Herzl, saved us some of the candies that were thrown at the Bar Mitzvah boy. We had a kiddush at the synagogue, a reception at home, and my mother prepared the midday meal for the students of the Beth Hamidrash—the house of Jewish studies. It was a beautiful day.     Part of being Jewish in Poland was learning to live with anti-Semitism. As a young child I had not encountered Jew-haters, partly because I was born in the remote mountains and also because my parents and older brothers wer