This is Aron Löwi.
This is Aron Löwi. He was 62 years old, a Jewish merchant from the small Polish town of Zator. Aron was not famous. He did not live a loud life. He was a husband. A neighbor. A familiar face along the market streets. The kind of man people nodded to, greeted by name, trusted with small conversations and shared days. His life was beautifully ordinary — shaped by routine, honest work, family meals, and long-standing ties to his community. After six decades, his world was made of quiet certainties. Things he believed would always be there. He could not have imagined how quickly they would disappear. On March 5, 1942, Aron arrived at Auschwitz. Within moments, the system did what it was built to do. His name — spoken for 62 years — was taken from him. In its place, he was given a number: 26406. A number stitched to cloth. A number written in a ledger. A number easier to manage than a human life. Because the camp did not only confine people — it worked to erase them. To strip...