Iran News
| Subscribe! | News Ticker |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
 |
 |
 |
'Maybe you met my grandmother there?' By Rachel Kremer (May 2) -- On Holocaust Remembrance Day, Rachel Kremer writes about a small, skinny schoolgirl, who just wouldn't take no for an answer -- They entered the library in their classes, each class with its teacher, most of whom were women. They entered in exemplary silence, with serious, thoughtful faces. I looked at them and thought that they were fearful of the experience that awaited them. After all, they were young, mischievous children. Free Israeli children on whom this Holocaust Remembrance Day observance had been imposed. Seventh- and eighth-grade students who, on ordinary days, still played in the schoolyard, shouting and laughing, using every free moment for fun. Perhaps the boys, smaller and thinner than the girls, who develop earlier, were already looking for girlfriends, or sending love notes to the girls. Very quietly, row by row, they found their places in the spacious library. Those who could not find a seat, and there were many, sat silently on the floor. They waited with grave faces and inquisitive eyes. The questions began - hesitantly at first - with uncharacteristic shyness. Sometimes in quiet, barely heard voices, sometimes in a hoarse ones. Brief questions, as if each word spoken had been weighed, examined, and thought out. Later, the questions became longer and freer. Hidden notes were brought out of pockets and examined to see if their writers had asked all they had prepared to ask. Their voices gathered strength, curiosity, understanding, maturity, as though they issued from the mouths of experienced, perceptive adults, not children. They wanted to know about things to which I had no answers. They wanted to know why there were no answers. They wanted to understand more and more. They asked many "whys" and very many "hows." How does one live with memory? With the past? Without family? With loss? They wanted to know about thoughts, feelings, forgetfulness. Were there acts of bravery? Were there also good Germans? Would I go back to Germany? Have I returned to my home, where I grew up and from where I was taken? Did any of my family survive? What has Israel given the survivors? What happened to all those who were with me? Are we still close? Have I told my children? What did I tell them? THEN I heard the high voice of a small, slight girl who had been looking directly at me since entering the room. Her gaze was penetrating, forcing me to return her look. She sat in the front row facing me, so little and different from the others. She did not seem to belong with them. Why was this little girl here? Why had they brought her? What could she understand? In a halting, uncertain, squeaky voice that emerged from a parched throat, she said: "Maybe you met my grandmother there? She was in the camps too. In Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen. "Maybe you met her?" Go explain to such a child about Auschwitz, about Bergen-Belsen, about the impact of the 50 years that have passed since then. Go explain what it is like to try to remember the hundreds and thousands of girls who were there then.... "She is a sixth-grader who asked - insisted - on participating in today's ceremony. She is a special girl, gifted, wise," whispered a teacher who sat near me. I looked at this little girl and told her that I did not think I had met her grandmother. That if I had, I could not remember. There were countless girls "there." The ceremony ended. The students began to leave in the same quiet and orderly way they had entered. Now they looked more thoughtful, as though they had suddenly matured. A veil of solemnity enveloped their faces. Perhaps they were still wondering about the questions that had gone unanswered. Maybe they were debating within themselves. Perhaps they were examining what they had not asked, and maybe had not understood, and could not understand. I collected my papers, and then I saw her. Looking at me, still sitting in the place where she had sat before. I could not take her look. She rose from her seat and approached me. She put her hand in her dress pocket, took out a picture, and extended it to me. Her grandmother. She was 15 at liberation. They photographed her before she returned home, where she found no one. Later she arrived in Israel with other children. The girl did not know exactly how her grandmother had come to Israel. She asked that I look closely at the picture; maybe I would remember her. Perhaps I did meet her - if not in Auschwitz, maybe in Bergen-Belsen. She wanted to know. I looked at the picture, a black-and-white photograph from a long time ago. I saw a sad-faced girl with a sorrow that could not be comforted. A girl with an emaciated face, whose thinness was noticeable even under the oversized dress she was wearing. I saw countless girls like her "there." They were all stricken by hunger, all wearing dresses which were not theirs, all sad or blank-faced. They all resembled the grandmother of this little girl who was pressing me, insisting that I recognize her granny. It was difficult to convince her that I had not met her grandmother, that I didn't remember her. I saw the disappointment and frustration in the lovely face of that small, skinny girl. I would have liked to be able to tell her about her grandmother, but I wasn't able. She did not let go, urging me to look at the picture again and again. Perhaps I would remember. The thin, shy voice that first asked the question in the library gained in urgency and increased in strength. The little girl's words were coming thick and fast. ALL THOSE years, while her grandmother was still alive, she had refused to tell. She said a young girl must live her own life. She didn't need to know all the difficult, horrible things her grandmother had experienced. A child must smile and be happy. She didn't need to know. In any case, she wouldn't understand, couldn't understand. Grandma could not go back to all that had been. She wanted to forget and live her new life. Maybe, when the girl grew up, she would be told. "She told me that I must live with courage and strength, embrace life... know that she had gone on living thanks to her family, and thanks to me. That she was proud of me and wanted me to smile, and be happy. "When the day came, she said, she would tell me." Now she was growing up, but her grandmother had gone. She went, and did not tell. But the girl still wanted to know, had to know. This perceptive young girl showered me with difficult, penetrating questions. I did not have the strength to tell her what her grandmother had refused to tell. When she left she told me that she now knew more - though, clearly, she would never know everything. But she had a feeling that I did meet her grandmother, only I did not remember. "Perhaps I did meet her," I said. What could I tell her? After all, she was just a little girl. (Translated by Orah Massarsky) Previous Next Holocaust
 |
|
|
 Click Here To Visit Yad Vashem'S Site
|
 |
Français
