When I was six or seven years old I discovered a large manila envelope in my father’s desk with one word hand written on the outside — Dachau. Inside were dozens of black and white snapshots that were impossible to comprehend. I knew enough to never ask my father about Dachau and he never spoke of it. But when I saw self-described neo-nazis marching through America’s streets, chanting Jew will not replace us, I couldn’t help wondering about my father’s reactions.

So, when he was 100 years old, I finally asked him about Dachau. This is his story: