The Holocaust story that I said I will not write

Air raid sirens will ring. There was a refuge for underground bombs that allowed the Jews, but only in a section covered, in a ridiculous way, by a glass roof. Every night, Mr. Lindenblatt was watching a panorama of the aircraft that flying over it and the bombs they were falling. He could still see him now, as he was talking about it; He was there again, and it was easy to see what he looked at when he was a child, and his eyes lit while watching the light show.

In November, the mother of Mr. Lindenblatt obtained a speech to his father in the work camp that the family was in trouble at home, so some guards were sprayed and infiltrated to one night. The father of Mr. Lindenblatt arrived at the apartment to find his wife arguing with the Hungarian Gentiles responsible for the building, who was trying to evacuate them. Mr. Lindenblatt’s father offered his entire money belt to a man – Mr. Lindenblatt does not know how much money there – he said he will never ask him, to help save his family. But the man put the belt in the kitchen stove and burned it, saying that his money was useless and that he would not do anything to help Lindenblatts. They couldn’t stay, but there was also no place to go. Mr. Lindenblatt’s father was scheduled to return to the camp, so Mr. Lindenblatt, his mother and his brothers left to find out. Go to the cold night, estimated to God knows where.

I was born on 1975, to a world in which people affected by the Holocaust seemed very old for me and the war appears to be very long. But now I am nearly 50 years, and I realize that I am old and my grandparents came when I was born and that the period between my birth and the Holocaust is almost the same between now and the competing explosion. I am not an old lady, and the tragedy of Callerger still looks modern to me. What should be the case to try to explain all these things for children who were simply lucky by their birth when they were born. How I should have understood that I had heard modern history; How should I understand that life was not in fact a very long period of time.

Those who survived Europe, mostly. They fled to Israel, to South Africa, to Australia, to America. They became members of Congress and industrial designers. They composed the leading opera and electronic music. They won the Nobel Prizes for Peace, Literature and Economy; They won the presidential medal of freedom. They were selling authors and piano members celebrated them. They helped codify abortion. They won the Academy Awards. They were therapists, doctors, teachers and factory workers. My mother grandparents have been named – let me remember only my family here for a minute – named Joseph and Raya Turku. I received my Hebrew Middle East, Leah, after Youssef’s sister, who was killed in Ghetto Ludes; My mother was named after his mother, Roshil, who shared the fate of her daughter. My grandmother Raya was on the last train of Kiev before the Baby Yar massacre, the largest killing of 33,771 people for two days. Serious Lods fled to Buchara, where my grandmother’s mother, who rented him to sell ice cream, met with all things, on the black market. When the Communists arrested him, they sent him to a work camp in Siberia. He went out, married the daughter of the employer, was my mother and aunt, and immigrated to Israel in 1950 and then to America in 1962. Here, he was my grandfather from a house. My grandmother was an architect, which I studied in Kyiv before the war. Their children gave birth to children, were loyal, excellent grandparents. They bought a dining store named Sam The Chrome King, at Atlantic Avenue and Eastern Parkway. It is something else now, but the sam the Chrome King was still under the new sign, the last time I reviewed it.

But that’s all I know. In my family, we have never talked about the war. The war was a killer and stood up to us, and threatened to shoot if we looked at it in the eye. But there was. There was when my grandmother did not leave any food on the table and merge all the remaining fluids into one cup and drink it. There was when my grandfather told me that he did not believe in God, because what kind of God would allow such a war to happen? At those moments, I looks at the window of their suffering and saw a world of pain without a floor or a roof. He made some survivors, such as Mr. Lindenblatt, their task to ensure that the world knows what happened to them. My family lived on the opposite end of the spectrum, and it is not a moral failure for them, but it may be the reason that I spent a long time so that I do not know to know myself as a survivor family. (This seems to be a common point of view, although it is a bad idea, according to people who know better. My family who is killed during this article and its result makes people in my family who took the survivors often; often, while I was writing this article, I would hear about this story, “You do not write this article.” Survivors. ”)