These crawls are part of an effort to archive pages as they are created and archive the pages that they refer to. That way, as the pages that are referenced are changed or taken from the web, a link to the version that was live when the page was written will be preserved.Then the Internet Archive hopes that references to these archived pages will be put in place of a link that would be otherwise be broken, or a companion link to allow people to see what was originally intended by a page's authors.The goal is to fix all broken links on the web . Crawls of supported "No More 404" sites. ||||| CLOSE During the liberation at Auschwitz, a photo was taken picturing several children. They did not know each other then, but 72 years later, three of them found each other. HUMANKIND 
 
 Buy Photo Frank Grunwald holds a photocopy of the letter his mother wrote to his father as she was being led to the gas chamber, a good-bye letter, He was 6 when he and his family were sent to a Nazi prison camp. His mother and brother did not survive. Frank recently donated it to the U.S. Holocaust Museum in D.C. (Photo: Matt Kryger/IndyStar)Buy Photo 
 
 The father told the son of the letter's existence back in 1946, right after the war, but the son, who was 11 years old, did not want to read it. He avoided even seeing it. 
 
 "I was scared of the letter," said the son, then known as Misa Grunwald and now Frank Grunwald. 
 
 Grunwald, who survived a Nazi concentration camp, is now a retired industrial designer living northeast of Indianapolis on Geist Reservoir. He is 85. "I was curious about the letter," he said, "but at the same time afraid, I think, for its sadness." 
 
 Grunwald's mother had written the letter to Grunwald's father moments before she, with Grunwald's older, crippled brother and hundreds of other Jews, entered the gas chamber at Auschwitz on July 11, 1944. 
 
 Ten sentences, scribbled in pencil on cheap paper, yet so extraordinary the letter is now in a museum in Washington, D.C. 
 
 Frank Grunwald and his mother, Vilma, before the Holocaust (Photo: United States Holocaust Memorial Museum) 
 
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 Vilma Grunwald wrote the note, folded the paper in half and wrote on the outside: "Dr. Grunwald F Lager." Kurt Grunwald, her husband, Frank's father, was also a prisoner at sprawling Auschwitz concentration camp. He was at one of the work camps. A physician, his job was to treat prisoners' injuries so they could return to work. F Lager was the barracks where he was kept. 
 
 She handed the note to a German guard, and in what seems miraculous, the guard personally delivered it to her husband, Kurt Grunwald told his son later. What kind of Nazi concentration camp guard would do that? 
 
 "My mother was a great reader of personalities," said Frank Grunwald. "She must have sensed this guard had some compassion. He was older; he was 50 or 60." 
 
 Auschwitz was liberated seven months later. Some time after that Kurt Grunwald was reunited with his surviving son, and said: I have a note here from your mother. 
 
 "I didn't want to see it, I was too upset," said Frank. 
 
 In 1951 the surviving Grunwalds moved to New York City. The father practiced medicine in Forest Hills. The son went to the Pratt Institute and studied industrial design. He got a job with General Electric in Syracuse and married his wife, Barbara. The couple had two children. 
 
 Kurt Grunwald died in 1967 at age 67, and it was while going through his father's belongings that Frank came across the letter. "He had it in a desk in his bedroom," Frank said. 
 
 "The paper had turned yellow. I saw it and knew what it was right away. I recognized my mother's handwriting." 
 
 The Grunwalds were Czechoslovakian, and Vilma had written in her native language. Frank read it. 
 
 The Grunwald Letter at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum (Photo: United States Holocaust Museum) 
 
 What struck him was its tone. 
 
 "There's not a word of anger or hatred or resentment or bitterness against the Nazis," he said. "It's all focused on my father and me, on the future." 
 
 He took the note home and put it in a desk. For two decades he showed it to no one, not even Barbara. Every few months he retrieved it and re-read it in privacy. 
 
 In the 1990s he showed it to his family. Four years ago he gave it to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C. 
 
 "I thought, 'Why not expose it so that others can see it?'" he said. "One of my biggest concerns has always been, 'Once I'm gone, who will remember my mother?' Now I believe that fear is neutralized." 
 
 More than 40 million people have visited the museum, which celebrates its 25th anniversary this week. 
 
 Over the years the museum has received donations of thousands of personal artifacts. But Vilma Grunwald's letter stands alone. 
 
 "I'm always reluctant to say it's the only such document ever created," said Judith Cohen, the museum's chief acquisitions curator, "but to the best of our knowledge it is — it is the only one we have ever seen. Auschwitz, in the moments before gassing. In the extermination camps it was almost impossible to write material that was preserved." 
 
 The quality of the paper used by Vilma Grunwald was poor, composed mostly of wood pulp, said Jane E. Klinger, the museum's chief conservationist. For preservation purposes, the letter is rotated out of the museum's gallery every six months. It is replaced by a facsimile, which is marked as such. 
 
 In its off time, the original is stored "unfolded and in inert, archival materials," Klinger said. It is handled only by gloved hands. 
 
 Intrinsically, it's just a piece of old paper. It's Vilma Grunwald's words that are powerful. But the object itself matters, said Cohen, because "it's authoritative documentation — it seems inconceivable, but people still deny the Holocaust, there are people doubting Auschwitz existed. 
 
 Frank Grunwald's parents, Vilma and Kurt, before the war (Photo: United States Holocaust Memorial Museum) 
 
 "But when you see the physical letter, you can't deny it. When you see the actual, physical paper, you say, 'This is proof, this is reality, this is what happened to her, and this is how she responded.'" 
 
 Vilma Grunwald's note of July 11, 1944, to her husband: 
 
 “You, my only one, dearest, in isolation we are waiting for darkness. We considered the possibility of hiding but decided not to do it since we felt it would be hopeless. The famous trucks are already here and we are waiting for it to begin. I am completely calm. You — my only and dearest one, do not blame yourself for what happened, it was our destiny. We did what we could. Stay healthy and remember my words that time will heal — if not completely — then — at least partially. Take care of the little golden boy and don’t spoil him too much with your love. Both of you — stay healthy, my dear ones. I will be thinking of you and Misa. Have a fabulous life, we must board the trucks. "Into eternity, Vilma.” 
 
 Contact IndyStar reporter Will Higgins at (317) 444-6043. Follow him on Twitter @WillRHiggins. 
 
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– That Vilma Grunwald's letter even exists is extraordinary. She penned it in the minutes before she was gassed at Auschwitz, addressed it to her husband, and handed it to a Nazi guard who did the improbable—delivered it to the man, who was also imprisoned at the camp. The Washington Post reports she accompanied her eldest child, a 16-year-old named John who limped, to the gas chambers. The Indianapolis Star has the story of the July 11, 1944, letter, which has for the last four years resided at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. "I'm always reluctant to say it's the only such document ever created," says the museum's chief acquisitions curator, "but to the best of our knowledge" it is the only surviving letter written at the concentration camp prior to a gassing. Grunwald's son, Misa (who now goes by Frank and lives northeast of Indianapolis) learned of the letter as an 11-year-old in 1946 but did not read it until after his father's 1967 death. Frank tells the Star that what he found most moving was the 11-sentence letter's tone: free of anger or resentment, and focused only on him and his father. It reads in part: "The famous trucks are already here and we are waiting for it to begin. ... You—my only and dearest one, do not blame yourself for what happened, it was our destiny. We did what we could. ... Take care of the little golden boy and don't spoil him too much with your love. Both of you—stay healthy, my dear ones. I will be thinking of you and Misa. Have a fabulous life, we must board the trucks." (This man buried a letter at Auschwitz; now we know what it says.)