I grew up with a remarkable father, a man whose life had been shaped by war, suffering, and ultimately, redemption. At the age of 18, my father was drafted into the army during World War II. He fought on both the Eastern and Western fronts, experiencing the horrors of war firsthand. Eventually, he was captured and sent to a camp in Russia where his chances for survival seemed impossible.

In the camp, my father witnessed the slow death of his fellow prisoners due to malnutrition and harsh conditions. He was nothing more than a frail skeleton lying on the barrack floor, with rats gnawing away at the last remnants of hope. It was in this darkest hour that a Jewish doctor, filled with compassion, intervened. She recognized my father’s dire situation and ordered that he be given proper food. This act of kindness saved my life and left an indelible mark on my heart.

My grandmother, a deeply religious woman, had been praying fervently for my father’s safe return for four-and-a-half years. Despite discouragement from neighbors and a lack of...