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"This is a man I haven't seen in 50 years. We changed a little," Hirsch said. "We have less hair. How do you explain a gut reaction? You get misty-eyed."

Hirsch, whose original last name was Kirschheimer, was 8 years old on Oct. 10, 1940, when his family was deported from Germany to the Gurs work camp in France, and then to the Rivesaltes camp. Meals consisted of soggy vegetables; living conditions were an unhygienic nightmare.

During the war, the OSE — its full name is the Union Mondiale Pour La Protection De La Santé des Populations Juives et Oeuvres De Secours Aux Enfants — operated eight homes throughout France in an effort to rescue children from the Nazis. Founded in the U.S.S.R. after the Bolshevik revolution, OSE exists to this day, now aiding Bosnian youngsters.

Hirsch says he was lucky enough to be sent to an OSE shelter. As he was put on a truck, his mother waved goodbye.

He never saw her again.

At the Des Milles work camp, near Marseilles, in October 1940, another German boy was squeezed into a bus bound for the OSE shelter. Before the bus left, the boy's father blessed him. The boy was Gunther Katz.

Father and son never saw each other again.

Both youths arrived at a 200-year-old chateau that had been converted to a boarding school. There, about 100 boys learned how to masquerade as French non-Jews by studying French language, culture and geography. Although thick forests hid the chateau, food was scarce. The youngsters' diet consisted mostly of beets and cabbage grown by the students themselves, along with hand-picked dandelions, blackberries and mushrooms.

The OSE chateau was sponsored primarily by the Rothschilds, a wealthy German banking family. The chateau still stands today and is located near the country town of Le Grand Bourg.

Close friendships among the children at the chateau were rare since youngsters departed at all hours of the day and night for safer countries. However, Katz and Hirsch formed a bond.

"When you're thrown together after many incidents, you cling. That's what happened between Ernie and me," Katz said.

In August 1942, Hirsch received a letter. His mother had written that she was going to an unknown destination, but promised to write back as soon as possible. Unfortunately, Hirsch never received another letter from her.

His parents were sent to Auschwitz, where they were gassed immediately.

Later, OSE sent Hirsch south, to the seaport of Marseilles, for a trip to America. Katz was going, too.

Hirsch and Katz, then 10 and 12 years old, respectively, spoke fluent French. On the train to Marseilles, Katz saw dust clouds rising from panzer tanks. When the students arrived in the port, they slipped into a dingy hotel.

Bedbugs infested the hotel; stormtroopers lurked outside. The boys learned more bad news: Their transports could not leave because German troops had occupied the seaport.

Anticipating an Allied invasion of Italy, the Germans rolled into southern France.

As the boys took the train back to the chateau, they passed German troops heading south. The Allies were taking control of North Africa.

In February 1943, as the Nazis were tracking down any Jews they left behind, OSE sent many children out of France to Switzerland. Others were saved by being placed in private homes, farms and convents throughout France. Others were captured.

One day, when Katz had the mumps, the chateau's director told him to pack his bags. When Katz returned to his dorm, he found Hirsch packing. With 16 others, the pair boarded a train under the care of a young woman — supposedly their teacher. She passed out I.D. cards, false names and papers, and told them to tell anyone who asked that they were on a school outing. No one was terribly afraid, Katz recalled.

"We'd been in this situation since 1940. We knew you did what you were told; you buttoned your lip," Katz said.

During the trip, French railroad police inspected passengers' papers.

"They came through the train. They got off the train. We did everything as the lady instructed," Katz said.

When they arrived in the border town of Annemasse, they entered the Hotel De La Gare, across from the railroad station. Once inside, the faux teacher bought them sandwiches and discussed the plan. The oldest and the youngest of the children would cross the mountains to Switzerland. The others would cross a wide field leading to the Swiss border.

On Feb. 22 at 3:30 p.m., Katz and Hirsch headed off. Within 15 minutes, they found the field and fell on their knees, pretending to dig up wild plants for dinner. As they crawled about, they saw their teacher's black silhouette against the long white walls of a cemetery. To their right stood Switzerland — blocked by barbed wire, attack dogs, an icy river and Italian guards. Katz found the opening in the fence that their teacher had told them about.

When the guard left his post, the teacher vanished into the cemetery, a prearranged signal for the youngsters to crawl under the barbed wire. But after Hirsch wiggled through, he realized that his beret was still caught in the wire.

"I went back and got it," said Hirsch.

They then crossed the river.

"It was damned cold. It was Switzerland on Feb. 22," Hirsch said.

They finally reached a steep slope, pulling up roots and rocks as they tried climbing.

"These hands grabbed us. They were Swiss soldiers. At that point they were helping us –thank God," Katz said.

Once in Switzerland, Katz and Hirsch stayed for several years with caring families. After the war, Katz left for the United States. Before leaving, the friends promised to stay in touch.

Somehow, they lost contact until recently, after Katz met a man who, it turned out, also knew Hirsch.

Katz had difficulty describing his tearful reaction when he first saw the grown-up Hirsch at the latter's Contra Costa County home.

"It was like traveling through a time-warp. Here he is; he hasn't changed much except that he's gotten bald," Katz said. "That same smile — it's unbelievable."