When a late-night fire tore through reclusive Mr. Whitmore’s house, Marisol watched firefighters carry him out and heard his rasped plea: “Please… watch my dogs.” She took in his three gentle, elderly dogs and began visiting him in the hospital, then helping him settle into the one livable room of his smoke-scarred home.

While cleaning upstairs, Marisol found untouched double doors leading to a pristine archive: boxes of letters, photos, and journals from Holocaust survivors. Mr. Whitmore revealed he’d fled Nazi Germany, later served as a translator at Nuremberg, and had spent decades preserving testimonies after losing his wife Anneliese and daughter Miriam.

Marisol urged him to share the collection. Historians and a memorial museum soon arrived, treating the room with reverence. For a man long ignored by his neighbors, the attention felt humbling—less fame than long-overdue respect for what he had safeguarded.

Before he died, Mr. Whitmore shared a quiet dinner at Marisol’s home. In his will, he left her the house, the archive, and the dogs—“the guardians.” Marisol accepted the trust, determined to carry their names and memories forward so some histories would never fade.