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Vice Mayor Dr. Ernst Kurt Lisso, his wife Renate Stephanie, in the chair, and his daughter Regina Lisso after committing suicide by cyanide to avoid capture by American troops on April 18, 1945
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dozydawn · 4 hours ago
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My Hundred Children by Lena Küchler-Silberman, 1963. Paperback detail.
“Trying to find reason to go on living after her family died in the Holocaust, Küchler-Silberman directed a postwar orphanage for 100 of the few Jewish children who remained alive in Poland. Her aim was to provide physical and emotional wholeness for those children who had lived in closets or forests and for the many who had seen their parents killed.”
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mynawyspie · 5 hours ago
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Czy naziści odpowiedzieli za swoje zbrodnie?
➡️7:30
''W Bawarii do 1946 roku co prawda zwolniono połowę nauczycieli szkół średnich, ale ze względu na braki kadrowe ci sami ludzie po dwóch latach byli z powrotem w szkołach. W tym samym landzie 6 lat po wojnie niemal wszyscy tamtejsi prokuratorzy i sędziowie byli wcześniej nazistami. Co drugi urzędnik w bawarskim Ministerstwie Rolnictwa należał do NSDAP. Co trzeci urzędnik Federalnego Ministerstwa Spraw Zagranicznych podobnie. (...) Większość Niemców uważała, że sam nazism był całkiem interesującą koncepcją, która została po prostu źle wprowadzona w życie. Jeszcze bardziej oburza wynik sondażu przeprowadzonego w listopadzie 1946 roku, kiedy to aż 37% ankietowanych uznało, że eksterminacja Żydów i Polaków była konieczna z uwagi na... bezpieczeństwo Niemców. (...) 20 września 1949 roku Konrad Adenauer w oficjalnym przemówieniu miał stwierdzić: Niemcy już odpokutowały swoje winy I należy zapomnieć o przeszłości.''
''A jak to wyglądało we Wschodnich Niemczech? Otóż tam panowała doktryna narzucona przez Związek Radziecki. Głosiła ona, że nazism zrodził się z kapitalistycznego egoizmu w okresie kryzysu. Aspekty rasistowskie, a co się z tym wiąże akty ludobójstwa, schodziły na dalszy plan.''
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lonestarbattleship · 5 hours ago
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USS Tennessee (BB-43) underway near Puget Sound, Washington, on May 12, 1943.
NHHC: 19-N-45071, 19-N-45068, 19-N-45072
Colorized Source
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prorochestvo · 5 hours ago
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Ukrainian Jewish member of the anti-Nazi resistance in Kyiv Tatiana Markus (1921-1943)
She repeatedly participated in acts of sabotage against the Nazis: she threw a grenade disguised in a bouquet of asters into a marching column of soldiers, poured poison into SS officers' food, personally shot a valuable Gestapo informant. Once she shot a Nazi officer and left a note: All of you, fascist bastards, are waiting for the same fate. Tatiana.
In Kyiv to protect her was developed a legend that she was the daughter of a Georgian prince shot by the Bolsheviks.
In 1942 she was captured by the Gestapo. For five months she was brutally tortured but did not betray anyone. In 1943 Tatiana Markus was shot. She was 22 years old.
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digitised-celluloid · 6 hours ago
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Coup de foudre. Dir. Diane Kurys. 1983.
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Vintage Christmas Photo Tiki Palm Frond Covered Island Bar Store December 1947
$9.99
BUY NOW
History:   dated December 1947
Included/Item Info: (Item for purchase is the exact item pictured); 1 Island Christmas December 1947 photo
Condition: Please see Photos: Excellent condition for its age
                                     LAST ONE LEFT!
Approximate Measurements:   3.75" wide x 2.5" tall
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bluestnightwing · 8 hours ago
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“We fight, we die...”
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Justice Society: World War II (2021)
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through-a-historic-lens · 11 hours ago
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Russian priests blessing Red Army soldiers during WW2 (this practice was allowed by Stalin to raise wartime morale, after furious anti-Church policy of the 1930’s) USSR, 1941-1943
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jhlcolorizing · 11 hours ago
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Bearded and tired Finnish soldier in the captured Karelian village of Rukajärvi, September 12, 1941.
Colonel Raappana's 14th Division conquered the village of Rukajärvi on 11 September 1941 and was able to hold its ground until the end of the War. •••••••• Väsynyt ja parroittunut sotilas vallatussa Rukajärven kylässä, 12.9.1941.
Eversti Erkki Raappanan komentama 14. divisioona valtasi erämaiden keskellä sijaitsevan itäkarjalaisen Rukajärven kylän 11. syyskuuta ja piti sen hallussaan aselepoon saakka. •••••••• [sa-kuva | 47537 | E.J.Paavilainen ]
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parksanddeserts · 13 hours ago
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I still have some zionists on fb and it's so nasty how they claim that it was good to evict those Palestinians because according to the law houses in Eastern Jerusalem that were owned by Jewish people before 1948 can be demanded back by 'the rightful owners'. When you read this kind of bullshit and think 'well that makes sense", realize that when these zionists say rightful owners, they don't mean the family that used to live there. They mean any Jewish person or organization. And realize that this same rule does not apply for the 60.000 Palestinians who lost their homes in Western Jerusalem after 1948. Also why 'returning to the 1967 borders' wouldn't make Israel less of an apartheid state.
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Joe Eugene Mann, Private First Class, United States Army, Company H, 502d Parachute Infantry, 101st Airborne Division.
Mann died during World War II, at 22, in a trench in Best, Holland. Mann’s arms were bandaged to his body due to bullet wounds suffered the day before. When a grenade landed in the trench, Mann yelled “I’m taking this one!” and fell upon it. The blast killed him but saved many others.
Mann received, posthumously, the Medal of Honor, Bronze Star, four Purple Hearts and other honors.
His Medal of Honor citation reads "He distinguished himself by conspicuous gallantry above and beyond the call of duty. On 18 September 1944, in the vicinity of Best, Holland, his platoon, attempting to seize the bridge across the Wilhelmina Canal, was surrounded and isolated by an enemy force greatly superior in personnel and firepower. Acting as lead scout, Pfc. Mann boldly crept to within rocket-launcher range of an enemy artillery position and, in the face of heavy enemy fire, destroyed an 88mm. gun and an ammunition dump. Completely disregarding the great danger involved, he remained in his exposed position, and, with his M-1 rifle, killed the enemy one by one until he was wounded 4 times. Taken to a covered position, he insisted on returning to a forward position to stand guard during the night. On the following morning the enemy launched a concerted attack and advanced to within a few yards of the position, throwing hand grenades as they approached. One of these landed within a few feet of Pfc. Mann. Unable to raise his arms, which were bandaged to his body, he yelled "grenade" and threw his body over the grenade, and as it exploded, died. His outstanding gallantry above and beyond the call of duty and his magnificent conduct were an everlasting inspiration to his comrades for whom he gave his life."
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ukdamo · 16 hours ago
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World War II, 'Target Berlin'
Edward Field - USAAF 8th Air Force, b.1924.
It was over Target Berlin the flak shot up our plane
just as we were dumping bombs on the already
smoking city
on signal from the lead bomber in the squadron.
The plane jumped again and again as the shells burst
under us
sending jagged pieces of steel rattling through our
fuselage.
It was pure chance
that none of us got ripped by those fragments.
Then, being hit, we had to drop out of formation
right away
losing speed and altitude,
and when I figured out our course with trembling hands
on the instruments
(I was navigator)
we set out on the long trip home to England
alone, with two of our four engines gone
and gas streaming out of holes in the wing tanks.
That morning at briefing
we had been warned not to go to nearby Poland
partly liberated then by the Russians,
although later we learned that another crew in trouble
had landed there anyway,
and patching up their plane somehow,
returned gradually to England
roundabout by way of Turkey and North Africa.
But we chose England, and luckily
the Germans had no fighters to send up after us then
for this was just before they developed their jet.
To lighten our load we threw out
guns and ammunition, my navigation books, all the junk
and, in a long descent, made it over Holland
with a few goodbye fireworks from the shore guns.
Over the North Sea the third engine gave out
and we dropped low over the water.
The gas gauge read empty but by keeping the nose
down
a little gas at the bottom of the tank sloshed forward
and kept our single engine going.
High overhead, the squadrons were flying home in
formation
—the raids had gone on for hours after us.
Did they see us down there skimming the waves?
We radioed our final position for help to come
but had no idea if anyone
happened to be tuned in and heard us,
and we crouched together on the floor
knees drawn up and head down
in regulation position for ditching;
listened as the engine stopped, a terrible silence,
and we went down into the sea with a crash,
just like hitting a brick wall,
jarring bones, teeth, eyeballs panicky.
Who would ever think water could be so hard?
You black out, and then come to
with water rushing in like a sinking-ship movie.
All ten of us started getting out of there fast:
there was a convenient door in the roof to climb out by,
one at a time. We stood in line,
water up to our thighs and rising.
The plane was supposed to float for twenty seconds
but with all those flak holes
who could say how long it really would?
The two life rafts popped out of the sides into the water
but one of them only half-inflated
and the other couldn’t hold everyone
although they all piled into it, except the pilot,
who got into the limp raft that just floated.
The radio operator and I, out last,
(did that mean we were least aggressive, least likely
to survive?)
we stood on the wing watching the two rafts
being swept off by waves in different directions.
We had to swim for it.
Later they said the cords holding rafts to plane
broke by themselves, but I wouldn’t have blamed them
for cutting them loose, for fear
that by waiting for us the plane would go down
and drag them with it.
I headed for the overcrowded good raft
and after a clumsy swim in soaked heavy flying clothes
got there and hung onto the side.
The radio operator went for the half-inflated raft
where the pilot lay with water sloshing over him,
but he couldn’t swim, even with his life vest on,
being from the Great Plains—
his strong farmer’s body didn’t know
how to wallow through the water properly
and a wild current seemed to sweep him farther off.
One minute we saw him on top of a swell
and perhaps we glanced away for a minute
but when we looked again he was gone—
just as the plane went down sometime around then
when nobody was looking.
It was midwinter and the waves were mountains
and the water ice water.
You could live in it twenty-five minutes
the Ditching Survival Manual said.
Since most of the crew were squeezed on my raft
I had to stay in the water hanging on.
My raft? It was their raft, they got there first so they
would live.
Twenty-five minutes I had.
Live, live, I said to myself.
You’ve got to live.
There looked like plenty of room on the raft
from where I was and I said so
but they said no.
When I figured the twenty-five minutes were about up
and I was getting numb,
I said I couldn’t hold on anymore,
and a little rat-faced boy from Alabama, one of the
gunners,
got into the icy water in my place,
and I got on the raft in his.
He insisted on taking off his flying clothes
which was probably his downfall because even wet
clothes are protection,
and then worked hard, kicking with his legs, and we all
paddled,
to get to the other raft
and tie them together.
The gunner got in the raft with the pilot
and lay in the wet.
Shortly after, the pilot started gurgling green foam from
his mouth—
maybe he was injured in the crash against the
instruments—
and by the time we were rescued,
he and the little gunner were both dead.
That boy who took my place in the water
who died instead of me
I don’t remember his name even.
It was like those who survived the death camps
by letting others go into the ovens in their place.
It was him or me, and I made up my mind to live.
I’m a good swimmer,
but I didn’t swim off in that scary sea
looking for the radio operator when he was
washed away.
I suppose, then, once and for all,
I chose to live rather than be a hero, as I still do today,
although at that time I believed in being heroic, in
saving the world,
even if, when opportunity knocked,
I instinctively chose survival.
As evening fell the waves calmed down
and we spotted a boat, not far off, and signalled with a
flare gun,
hoping it was English not German.
The only two who cried on being found
were me and a boy from Boston, a gunner.
The rest of the crew kept straight faces.
It was a British air-sea rescue boat:
they hoisted us up on deck,
dried off the living and gave us whisky and put us
to bed,
and rolled the dead up in blankets,
and delivered us all to a hospital on shore
for treatment or disposal.
None of us even caught cold, only the dead.
This was a minor accident of war:
two weeks in a rest camp at Southport on the Irish Sea
and we were back at Grafton-Underwood, our base,
ready for combat again,
the dead crewmen replaced by living ones,
and went on hauling bombs over the continent of
Europe,
destroying the Germans and their cities.
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Picture shows the B-17 Flying Fortresses of this bomber group on a bombing run.
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davidfavrod · 16 hours ago
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Neige fraîche (Haida Katsuhiko, Shinsetsu, 1942), tryptich
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