Seventy years ago, on April 29, 1945, Dachau concentration camp was liberated. My father, may he be well, now 90 years old, was there. The death camp was filled with Jews who had survived the sadistic circumstances under the gun sights of Nazi guards. My father’s presence there was not as an inmate but on the right side of a rifle: a young American soldier whose regiment entered the camp in pursuit of the fleeing Nazis. His war experience was from the unique perspective of a soldier, a liberator, and an American but, most poignantly, as a Jewish boy from Philadelphia.