I first interviewed Colette Brull-Ulmann at her home in 2004, just after I had begun my own research on the Rothschild Hospital. She was eighty-four years old, sharp and outspoken, optimistic, accessible. A handsome woman with a compelling voice that commanded complete attention. On camera she told me everything she could remember about her time at Rothschild. She was eager to show me the place itself and met me there the next day, pointing out the older buildings and the entry on the rue Santerre, which have been preserved as a site of memory-un lieu de mémoire-with its courtyard, administrative pavilions, and the gate she mentions so often in her story…. she leaned over as if to share a secret, "You have to remember … The morgue was over there, and then when you walked down the rue Santerre, there was a small door, and that was the small morgue door that opened when I'd leave with the children. That's how it was." Her desire, need almost, to have me see her story was striking. She knew she was the last survivor, the last witness to the tragedy and the heroism that was Rothschild under German occupation. To me, Rothschild is a microcosm of occupied Paris, and Brull-Ulmann's memoir a microcosm of Jewish life, such as it was, during that time. She hides nothing-the fears, the horrors, the hunger, the despair, but also the occasional fun moments snatched here and there among a small gang of twenty-somethings charged with an unimaginable weight of responsibility, and most of all, the sheer bravado and outright bravery that led them to rescue so many lives.