In August 2024, while digitizing photographs from liberated concentration camps for the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, researcher Dr. Sarah Lieberman examined a 1945 image from Bergen-Belsen. The photograph showed a small girl, approximately six years old, sitting on a cot in the children’s recovery ward, holding a donated doll and offering a tentative smile. It was one of thousands of liberation photos documenting survivors. The image had been filed as “unidentified child survivor, May 1945.”
When Dr. Lieberman reviewed the photo at high resolution, she noticed something missed for 79 years: a number tattooed on the child’s left forearm. Zooming in, she read “A 7358.” She immediately recognized the significance—Auschwitz tattoos, especially on children, were rare and indicated forced registration. Most children sent to Auschwitz were murdered upon arrival; those tattooed had been selected for forced labor, experiments, or other reasons.
Dr. Lieberman, a 12-year veteran of the museum specializing in photographic archives and survivor identification, had cataloged thousands of images. Her department received about 500 new photographs annually from families, archives, estate sales, and military records. In August 2024, the museum acquired 847 photographs from the estate of Captain James Walsh, a U.S. Army medical officer who served with units that liberated Bergen-Belsen. Captain Walsh died in 2023 at age 102, and his family donated his papers and photos.
Among his collection was a photograph labeled in Walsh’s handwriting: “Little girl with doll, children’s ward, May 12, 1945.” It showed a child on a metal-frame cot, wearing an oversized donated dress with hair recently cut short, likely due to lice, now growing back unevenly. She held a porcelain doll nearly as large as herself, her expression uncertain yet trying to smile. Dr. Lieberman scanned the image at 6,400 dpi and began a closer examination.
At 400% magnification, the tattoo on the child’s tiny forearm became clear. The number read “A 7358.” Sarah checked the museum’s database of Auschwitz registrations, which documented the A-series used from May to July 1944. The entry for A7358 read: female, registered May 28, 1944—no name recorded. Incomplete records, many destroyed by the Nazis, meant thousands of numbers existed without names.
Yet this case held a crucial clue: a visible tattoo number on a liberation-era photograph from Bergen-Belsen. If the child survived and entered the care of relief organizations, records might exist—perhaps even a name. Sarah compiled known facts: Auschwitz prisoner A7358, female, registered May 28, 1944; approximate age six in the photo; photographed in Bergen-Belsen on May 12, 1945; light brown hair, thin build, small stature. She mapped the historical context of the A-series and Hungarian Jewish deportations.
From May to July 1944, approximately 440,000 Hungarian Jews were deported to Auschwitz in one of the Holocaust’s most intense phases. Most were murdered immediately; those selected for labor were tattooed and registered. Children were seldom selected; exceptions included twins for experiments, older youths who lied about age, and rare cases shielded by relatives. A six-year-old with an Auschwitz tattoo suggested an extraordinary path to survival.
Sarah contacted key archives. At Arolsen Archives in Germany, she confirmed A7358, female, registered May 28, 1944, with no additional identifying data. Yad Vashem’s database showed a transport from Munkács (Monkach), Hungary, arriving May 28, 1944, with about 3,000 people; 2,847 were murdered immediately, and 153 were registered and tattooed, including approximately 12 children under ten. The Bergen-Belsen Memorial Archives noted around 500 children under twelve present at liberation, many critically ill.
A handwritten Bergen-Belsen list titled “Children’s Ward, unidentified, May 1945” provided a breakthrough. Entry 47 recorded: female child, approximately age six; Auschwitz tattoo 7358; no name; speaks Hungarian; nonresponsive to questions; placed in care of UNRRA. Sarah then traced UNRRA successor records. In September 2024, she found a transfer document dated June 18, 1945.
The document read: “Child A7358, name unknown, transferred to Jewish Children’s Home, Paris, France, accompanied by survivor Eva Klene, nurse volunteer.” It noted severe trauma, mutism, and need for ongoing medical and psychological care. Sarah contacted the organization that ran the Paris home (1945–1952), which cared for about 400 child survivors. The archivist located the 1945 intake records.
On September 15, 2024, Sarah received scans confirming an intake dated June 22, 1945. The entry identified “Hannah Goldberg,” approximately six, from Munkács, Hungary; Auschwitz prisoner A7358; liberated from Bergen-Belsen; no known surviving family. It documented severe malnutrition, tuberculosis, and mutism, and noted the tattoo on her left forearm and placement in the medical ward. At last, A7358 had a name.
Follow-up records traced Hannah’s recovery. In July 1945, she remained nonverbal but responded to her name, fearing adults yet accepting comfort from female caregivers. By September 1945, she began speaking Hungarian, asking repeatedly for “Anya” (mother), plagued by nightmares and needing constant supervision. In December 1945, her physical health improved with TB treatment, though trauma remained; she formed a strong attachment to nurse Eva Klene.
By March 1946, Hannah tentatively played with other children but experienced severe anxiety. She refused to let go of her doll—the very one from Bergen-Belsen—which she carried everywhere. Sarah realized the doll in the photograph had become Hannah’s security object, perhaps her first gift after liberation. Records indicated she kept it for years, imbuing it with deep meaning.
Sarah pieced together Hannah’s postwar life. From 1946 to 1948, Hannah remained at the children’s home in Paris, with Eva as her primary caregiver. In 1948, Eva legally adopted Hannah; Eva, a Polish Jewish survivor of Auschwitz, had lost her own family and devoted herself to caring for child survivors. In 1949, they immigrated to the United States, settling in New York City to rebuild their lives.
Records from the 1950s and 1960s were sparse but indicated Hannah attended public schools, lived with Eva (who never married), and graduated high school. A marriage record showed Hannah Goldberg wed David Rosenberg in New York in 1970. Birth records followed: Rebecca (1972), Sarah (1975), and Jacob (1978). In 1985, a Jewish community newspaper featured Hannah’s testimony at a remembrance event.
“I was six years old when I was liberated from Bergen-Belsen,” the article quoted Hannah. “I don’t remember my parents’ faces or home in Hungary. I remember the camps, hunger, and fear. I also remember the day I was given a doll—the first toy in over a year—which represented hope and kindness. I kept that doll my entire life and told my children, ‘This is what hope looks like.’”
Sarah next sought to determine whether Hannah was still alive. Public records indicated that Hannah lived in New York until 2018, then moved to a retirement community in Florida. As of 2024, she was 84 years old and alive. Recognizing the sensitivity of contacting Holocaust survivors, Sarah worked through a Florida survivor services organization to approach Hannah with great care.
In October 2024, a social worker met with Hannah and explained that a researcher had found a 1945 photograph believed to be of her. Hannah agreed to meet. On October 15, 2024, Sarah met Hannah at her community room, with Hannah’s daughter Rebecca present. Hannah, slight with white hair and sharp eyes, walked with a cane; the faded tattoo “A 7358” remained visible on her left forearm.
Sarah showed the digitized photograph on a tablet. “Mrs. Rosenberg, this was taken shortly after the liberation of Bergen-Belsen. We believe the little girl holding the doll is you.” Hannah stared at the screen, her daughter holding her hand. “That’s me,” she said softly. “That’s the doll.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I haven’t seen a picture of myself from that time in 79 years. The camps didn’t take photographs for prisoners, and my family had no camera. I had nothing from that time except my memories, the tattoo, and the doll.” When Sarah asked if she still had the doll, Hannah nodded and led them to her apartment.
From a closet shelf, Hannah brought out a carefully wrapped box. Inside lay the same porcelain doll, now 79 years old, with faded paint and a yellowed dress but otherwise intact. “I named her Hope,” Hannah said. “When I had nightmares or was scared, I held Hope. I told my children that she represented the kindness that still existed after so much evil.”
Hannah looked back at the photograph. “That little girl had survived hell and didn’t know if she’d ever be safe again. Someone gave her a doll—someone showed kindness. That kindness saved her life as much as the medical care did.” The identification transformed the historical record, resolving a 79-year mystery and restoring a name to a number.
Over the following months, Sarah worked with Hannah to document her full story. Hannah was born in February 1939 in Munkács, Hungary (now Ukraine), to Jacob (a tailor) and Miriam (a seamstress), with an older brother David, age eight in 1944. The family’s extended network included about 35 relatives. In May 1944, they were forced into the Munkács ghetto with approximately 14,000 other Jews and deported to Auschwitz on May 23.
They arrived at Auschwitz on May 28, 1944. During selection, five-year-old Hannah was separated from her mother for reasons unknown—perhaps a momentary decision or error. She was tattooed and sent to children’s barracks rather than murdered on arrival. Her parents, brother, and most relatives were murdered within hours, a fate endured by the majority on that transport.
Hannah survived in the children’s barracks from June 1944 to January 1945 through luck, the protection of older prisoners, and her small size, which sometimes made her less visible. She endured traumatic procedures associated with non-lethal medical experiments and the effects of starvation. As the Soviets approached in January 1945, she was evacuated westward. Hannah was transferred to Bergen-Belsen, surviving the death marches and dire conditions until liberation.
British forces liberated Bergen-Belsen on April 15, 1945. Hannah was found in the children’s section, severely ill with typhus and malnutrition, and began a slow recovery in the British military hospital. The photograph was taken on May 12, 1945, two weeks before her sixth birthday—though she did not know that at the time. The museum later placed the identified photograph in an exhibition titled “Faces Found: Identifying the Unknown Survivors.”
Hannah agreed to give video testimony for the museum’s archive. At age 84, she shared fragmented yet essential memories that added to the historical record. “For most of my life, I was just a number—A7358,” she said. “The Nazis tried to erase my identity, but I survived, reclaimed my name, and built a family. The number remains, but it no longer defines me.”
“The photograph shows the moment between being a number and becoming Hannah again,” she continued. “Between victimhood and survival, between having nothing and receiving something that represented hope and kindness. I want people to see that every victim of the Holocaust was a person with a name, a family, and a story. We were not just numbers, and those who survived must tell their stories so the world never forgets.”
Hannah donated the doll—Hope—to the Holocaust Memorial Museum. It now sits beside the 1945 photograph with a placard: “This doll was given to Hannah Goldberg, Auschwitz prisoner A-7358, shortly after liberation from Bergen-Belsen in May 1945. She kept it for 79 years as a symbol of hope and humanity’s capacity for kindness even in the darkest times.” The display reconnects artifact, image, and survivor.
Today, Hannah has three children, eight grandchildren, and five great-grandchildren as of 2024. Her extended family—descended from a six-year-old who survived Auschwitz—numbers over 30 people. At a family gathering in November 2024, Hannah’s six-year-old great-granddaughter asked to hold the photograph. “That’s you, great-grandma?” she asked.
“Yes,” Hannah replied. “You look sad,” the child said. “I was very sad then. But see the doll? That doll gave me hope, and hope helped me survive to become your great-grandmother.” The child studied the image and asked to see Hannah’s number. Hannah showed the faded tattoo, and the little girl gently touched the numbers.
“Does it hurt?” the child asked. “Not anymore,” Hannah said. “It used to hurt every day, but now it’s just a reminder that I survived.” In that quiet exchange, decades collapsed into a moment of connection. A number became a name, a photo became a life, and a doll named Hope kept doing what it always had—carrying a story forward.
