Visiting Hell With Mom

IMG_2966I have never been to these places, but these places have always been with me.

They were with me on the day I was born, a trifling 19 years after my mother’s liberation. As they beheld their infant daughter, my parents mulled over names but when there are so many dead to name for, how do you choose? The oldest, the closest, the youngest, the most tragic?

They were with me in 1966 when I was a three-year-old living in Israel. As the din of war drums began to sound, my parents anxiously packed our bags returning to the US earlier than planned, forgoing the dream of Aliyah (settling in Israel) because, as my father explained, “Your mother can’t fight another war.”

They were with me when my mother informed me early one school day morning, as I choked down a bowl of hot farina, that I was now the protagonist in her recurrent nightmare in which, first she, and now I, was being pursued and ultimately shot dead by the Nazis. What makes the nightmare darkest mom, you as the victim or me?

They were with me on the day I met my husband, also the child of survivors who when I suggested that one day we might have to sew gold coins into the linings of our jackets and flee, nodded understandingly.

They were with me on the days I birthed my three sons and my first thought upon seeing them was that by the sheer act of living I had triumphed, but by giving life I had spit on Hitler’s grave.

They were with me when I taught my sons who they are and where they came from because that too was an act of defiance.

And this week I am here in these places with my mother.

And today, although I know that these killing fields are sacred for the dead who are memorialized in them, this is, after all, only a place; a place where the birds sing and the trees rise and sway majestically over the forest bed.

And today, I realize that I didn’t need to see these places to know them, to feel them, to taste them, to smell their putrid stench because these places and the people lost here have been with me always.

I will never return to these places, but these places will always be with me.

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2 thoughts on “Visiting Hell With Mom

  1. You echo my sentiments so precisely. These places are with me during waking hours and when I sleep. My parents did not want me to see them with my eyes but managed to paint a vivid picture with their words.

  2. Reading your blog brought voice to what I live. Both of my parents were survivors of the Holocaust and I and my siblings are victims of the Holocaust. The trauma that my parents suffered was transferred to all of us in utero. I am a 61 year old retired physician and have tried to come to terms with this trauma for my entire life. I struggle to free myself.

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