There’s a pencil sketch of a young Army captain hanging among the family pictures in the hall in my house. It’s dated “Dachau ’45.” The artist was a Jewish prisoner. My father was involved in the liberation of Dachau and contributed to the official report on the camp as a military intelligence officer. My father didn’t speak much about that experience, but his letters home from that time painted a picture of inhuman horror.
The Gentle Reader should therefore understand my lack of patience with holocaust deniers and should understand my utter disgust at the recent stories of trying to teach “critical thinking” by arguing that the holocaust was a hoax.