Vancouver, British Columbia
January, 1995
I had just arrived in Vancouver to visit my son and my young grandchildren. B.C. was frosty and wind whipped around me as I waited curbside for him to collect me from the terminal. It had been a long flight and I was exhausted, my bones ached and the cold only further stiffened my muscles. It had been nearly a decade since my son had left for university in Canada. Flights were long and expensive so his return trips home were very infrequent. He drove up in the family station wagon, greeted me with a firm but loving hug and helped me with my luggage.
We exchanged small talk on the drive to his house, the radio softly chattering in the background. Then I stopped when a CBN announcer said,
“Today marked the 50th Anniversary of the liberation of the Nazi Concentration Camp Auschwitz. The German Chancellor Helmut Kohl issued a statement offering his deepest condolences and stood in solidarity with British Prime Mister John Major and French President François Mitterrand –”
With that it was like a bullet had hit me, memories flooded back, I couldn’t breath, I couldn’t think, I could only remember those stone cold walls, barren bunks, and the words “Work Shall Set You Free” passing above me. My mother, father, and sister —
My son noticed something was wrong,
“Dad?”
I cleared my throat — “Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
Faintly I responded, “Yes.”
My memories flashed before me like a swirling masquerade of color, light, and sounds; as vivid as the day they had happened.
The truth is when you reach a certain age, you begin to realize you are not immortal. I brought along my journals to give to my son in the event that G-D decided to take me away. That is of course if there even is a G-D, but I find comfort in the customs and community of Judaism, not necessarily the faith. Realizing that I needed to pass these journals along only furthered my resolve to be honest about the history I endured so my children and grandchildren may never have to experience something as horrific as I have.