essay about my life is in my hands

In My Hands

49 pages • 1 hour read

In My Hands: Memories of a Holocaust Rescuer

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Chapter Summaries & Analyses

Prologue-Chapter 6

Chapters 7-12

Chapters 13-18

Chapters 19-24

Chapter 25-Postscript

Key Figures

Symbols & Motifs

Important Quotes

Essay Topics

Discussion Questions

Summary and Study Guide

In My Hands: Memories of a Holocaust Rescuer is a memoir written by Irene Gut Opdyke with help from historical-fiction author Jennifer Armstrong. The book details Opdyke’s experience as a young Polish woman who rescued Jews from the Holocaust during World War II. Armstrong explains in a note at the end of the book that she constructed the narrative after countless hours interviewing Opdyke. For the purpose of this study guide, Opdyke is referred to as the author of the memoir throughout.

Opdyke, née Irena Gut , was born in a small Polish village in May 1922, and In My Hands begins with a brief recounting of Irena’s happy childhood as the eldest of five sisters. As a teenager, Irena wishes to become a hero, saving lives and taking part in “righteous adventures” (14), so she volunteers for the Red Cross and decides to become a nurse. Meanwhile, Hitler is rising to power in Germany.

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At the age of sixteen, in 1938, Irena enrolls in nursing school at St. Mary’s Hospital in Radom, Poland. As her studies continue, Hitler’s influence grows in both Germany and Poland. In September 1938, German bombers attack Radom, and Irena quickly becomes a rescue worker at St. Mary’s, rather than a student. Determined to help her countrymen, she volunteers to accompany retreating Polish forces as part of the medical staff.

Deposited with the soldiers and medical staff near the Russian border, Irena learns the Polish army is defeated and disbanding. She follows the former Polish soldiers through the forest for months, and at one point is brutally raped by Russian soldiers. Another Russian patrol finds her after the rape and takes her to a hospital in Ternopol, where she is put to work as a prisoner of the Russians.

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After working both at the hospital in Ternopol and a clinic in a small Russian village, Irena finally escapes to look for her family. She makes it to Radom, where she finds her parents and sister living with her aunt, Helen. Soon after she arrives, Russia and Germany declare war on each other, and German soldiers force her father to return to his hometown and run the ceramics factory there. Irena’s three youngest sisters and mother accompany him, while Irena’s oldest sister, Janina, stays with her in Radom.

Irena is picked up as part of a German raid and put to work in an ammunitions factory. The major in charge of the Polish workers, Eduard Rügemer, eventually gives her a better job serving German officers in a converted hotel, and she is allowed to return to her family. Irena gets Janina a job in the hotel as well, and they work under a kind man named Herr Schulz . Irena becomes aware of the horrors occurring in the nearby Jewish ghetto and smuggles extra food from the hotel to the Jews, despite knowing she could be put to death for her actions.

In spring 1942, Irena and Janina accompany the German officers as they relocate east, to Ternopol. One of Irena’s tasks is to oversee a laundry room staffed by twelve Jews from the local work camp. She befriends the Jewish workers and, as she learns of the abuse going on in the camp, determines to help them however she can. She eavesdrops on the cruel SS officer, Sturmbannführer Rokita , who mistreats her workers, when she serves the Germans at mealtimes, and she passes on information about raids to her Jewish friends. Meanwhile, after noticing an officer ogling Janina, Irena decides she can best protect her sister by sending her back to Radom, leaving Irena to help the Jews alone.

By spring 1943 the Aktions against Jews—raids where Jews disappear, never to be heard of again—are increasing, and Irena smuggles six of her workers to a nearby forest, where they will hide from the Germans. Irena overhears Rokita saying that Hitler plans to exterminate all the Jews in Ternopol by July. Meanwhile, Major Rügemer is relocating to a nearby villa and asks Irena to move in as his housekeeper. She discovers the villa’s basement is the perfect place to hide the rest of the laundry room workers, and she manages to smuggle them in just before the final extermination of the Jews occurs.

Irena successfully hides ten Jews in the basement, and while Rügemer eventually discovers the presence of two of the Jewish women, he agrees to keep her secret, but only if Irena will be his mistress. Irena, feeling she has no choice, agrees to this fate she considers worse than rape.

As 1944 arrives, Russian forces are advancing, and the Germans are evacuating Ternopol. Irena smuggles the Jews to the forest, knowing the war is almost over, and she has brought them through alive.

Rügemer and Rokita bring Irena to Kielce, where the major wants Irena to continue working for him, but she escapes and joins a partisan group. Irena falls instantly in love with the group’s leader, Janek Ridel , and they are engaged to be married. Janek, however, is killed in an ambush on the Germans.

The war ends, and a grieving Irena begins to search for her family. She reconnects with her Jewish friends and finds they’ve all survived, but she learns her father was killed for disrespecting German soldiers, while her mother and sisters are in hiding because of Irena’s partisan ties. Realizing she can’t visit her family without endangering them, she accepts that she may never see them again.

Irena lives in a repatriation camp in Germany for three years before a UN worker, William Opdyke, offers her US citizenship after hearing her story. In a postscript, we learn that after arriving in the US, Irena encountered Opdyke by chance and the two later married and had a daughter, Janina. Irena was finally able to visit Poland and reunite with her sisters in 1984, and she dedicated her later years to sharing her story and making sure the horrors of the Holocaust—and the heroism of those who fought against it—are never forgotten.

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Your Destiny Is in Your Hands

Changing your destiny

The paths of destiny are not always easy. Despite having been born into a wealthy family, fighting against your surroundings is never simple. But this is not a reason to give in .

We are the only owners of our destiny. We decide what we want to do with our lives, our world and our environment. It’s up to you whether you conform to what you’ve been given, or whether you try to do something good with the tools at your disposal.

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Home — Application Essay — Engineering Schools — Talking About Hands: What It Can Reveal About Me

Talking About Hands: What It Can Reveal About Me

• University: California Institute of Technology

About this sample

Words: 734 |

Updated: Nov 30, 2023

Words: 734 | Pages: 2 | 4 min read

My legs dangled high above the ground as I sat next to my mom on the train. As I fidgeted the way little children do, my mother spoke to me. “You have plump fingers, not thin and bony like mine.” I frowned at her as she held my then tiny hands in hers. She continued, “This is a very good thing. Round, full hands like yours do not do hard work. They are made to be pampered.” I doubtfully glared at my digits. She laughed and proceeded to tickle me silly with her long-fingered, sandpapery hands. Though time has proven my mother right about most everything else, I remain unconvinced about that one claim. Despite their appearance, my hands are not for show. They, like my eyes and mind, are my tools, but unlike the latter two, they showcase who I am to anyone who cares to look. So in this essay I'll talk about hands, my hands and what it can tell about me.

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From a distance, my hands resemble those of a little girl. They fit the smallest-sized gloves and my fingers can’t stretch wide enough to palm a grapefruit. Mostly, people only notice my hands when I paint my nails. On special days, they are decked in bright colors and dramatic patterns to fit my mood. Sometimes those days are holidays, but more often, those days are special because of competitions or major tests. On nights when I stay up late studying, I keep myself alert for that extra hour by painting my nails between page turns. One nail to four pages, forty pages to one coat, read until the last layer is dry, and then I can go to bed. The next day, the flashing colors give me an extra boost of courage by reminding me of the time I’ve committed.

Closer inspection of my hands reveals permanent marks that record my bouts of enthusiasm. There’s a pale ragged scar along the left thumb where a craft knife slipped after cutting through a stubborn stick of balsawood, and my left pinky doesn’t straighten all the way, a memento of my junior high basketball days. The mistakes and injuries aside, my right hand also bears the brunt of fencing. The side of the index finger is one large callus from practicing parries, and there are layered dark scars just a centimeter away where my glove and weapon grinded until the skin broke.

However, most marks are transitory. When I took AP Chemistry last year, stains and burns from one lab never had time to fade before the next one earned me more. After an afternoon painstakingly building balsawood bridges or endurance flight planes, the tips of all ten of my digits are lightly coated with a flaky layer of blood and superglue, testament to the hot, red pain of glue burns and knife cuts.

My hands broadcast my moods and feelings when they are in motion. When I’m relaxed, they tap softly to a cheerful beat, but when I’m solving a problem, they twirl pens or pencils, keeping rhythm with my hurried thoughts. When they adjust a microscope or paint a poster, they move fluidly, reflecting my own confidence, but when I feel driven -- be it during a fencing bout, buzzer competition, or game of Rockband -- they are tense and sometimes move impossibly fast. At their most expressive, they deftly draw diagrams in the air as I energetically explain and describe concepts, but they can also be very steady when I reach out to comfort a friend.

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To remember who I am, all I have to do is hold my palms out in front of me. Some things about me, like the size of my hands, I can’t change, but when I reach out for a handshake that will engulf mine, I still keep my grip firm. When I try too hard (and even sometimes when I don’t), I get myself hurt, but I’m learning to smile and move on. My hands, like me, are unassuming from a distance and imperfect at close range, but the important thing is that they are always very capable. When I feel their underlying strength and versatility, I remember that my hands are important to me not because of what they look like, but because of what they’ve done, what they can do, and what they will learn to do in the years to come.

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