Your
generation sent us to war and our generation went
without questions because it had become a way of life.
When we returned (not all of us–some were killed, some
were wounded and some went missing), we returned to face
the silence of your generation and the one before yours–a silence of fifty years. When you did decide to talk,
you told us of the horrors, going into the smallest
details. About people standing naked and helpless before
murderers in their best uniforms and shining boots . . .
being sent to the gas chambers . . . horrors that we
simply couldn't endure. At the age of twenty, we knew
how to face death in battle–but Papa, we couldn't deal
with the memories of cruelty that defies understanding.
Especially,
Dad, when you tell me about my Grandpa, whom I never
knew, or your sister Fruma's children–then the pain
spews out like a volcano. . . as you gently describe,
step by step, the terrible deaths of year-old babies
being thrown into gas chambers (the showers) holding
onto their mothers' hands with all their strength. . .
at least to die together–to lessen the terror in the
shade of a mother's five fingers.
What
could I (your daughter) do? I simply couldn't chase away
the clouds of the Holocaust generation. I can hardly
face the death of my grandfather, your father.
When you
speak about our family, the people of that generation
creep up and stand before me, demanding an explanation–an explanation I cannot begin to think of.
So,
Papa, don't send me any more letters. The sadness is too
great. I don't have the heart to hear about people
standing in line for the gas chambers. They walk without
hope, taking their last steps. It's so painful.
In your
letters about Grandfather, Yaacov and Fruma–about the
family and the names I got to know from your thoughts
and your letters; it seems as though the past has risen
up and declared war on the present, inflicting mortal
wounds. Even the future hides in the corner of my heart
because it fears the past.
Believe
me, Dad, I want to know everything! It's part of my
family, my people, part of the human race. This pain and
the tears are killing me . . . but I try very hard . . .
I don't give up, I try again . . . I turn away from the
street as I read your letters . . . (so passers-by won't
see me). I stop in pain, wiping away the tears as I face
the walls and alleys . . . I read and . . . weep.
I know I must stop because I must and want to know your
story and that of our family. I know I must not let the
tears stop me. The pain has the right to stand up and
declare war on the silence for soon the past and the
pain will never be understood.
But
Daddy . . . please . . . don't send me more letters. I
need time. I know that death is part of life–but I
didn't know that murderers like the German Nazis are as
unavoidable as natural disasters in the history of
humanity.
Daddy .
. . soon I will be stronger . . . in spite of the tears
and the pain. Don't pay attention to the smudges on the
page. They are only tears.
Yours,
with love.
Tami
