She hadn’t yet spoken full sentences. She hadn’t run through fields, scraped her knees, or learned to read bedtime stories. At just seventeen months old, she was deported to Auschwitz—too small to fight, too innocent to understand, too human to be spared. There, she was murdered in the gas chambers.

She had done nothing. And still, the world lost her.

We do not remember Denise as a number. We remember her as a little girl with the soft hands of a toddler, who should have had a future filled with birthdays, books, and love. She was not lost—she was taken.

Say her name. Denise Repper. Because she mattered.