Today is my mother's birthday - she was born in 1921 in Poland. She passed away in 2004. I so love this photograph - maybe for what it doesn't tell me: where was this taken? How old was she? Was it taken before or after the war broke out? I suspect before. What was in her thoughts at this particular moment in time?
I have been reading a lot about the war lately - too much perhaps. I feel guilt for not having listened very much to my father's stories - and now he too is gone. But Mum never spoke that much about it all - and I can only wonder now what horrors she must have lived through, as I read first-hand accounts and memoirs - all on the internet now - all there as evidence - as memory - as memorial. And as an archivist by profession, I fully know how incredibly important it is for all these people to have recorded and shared their stories, however difficult it must have been.
I look at my face in the mirror and wonder how I would have fared in such circumstances: the fear, above all, must have been overwhelming. But, as they say, one never knows the incredible resilience of the human spirit. Thousands of courageous, and even kind acts were performed in those dark days - days full of seemingly endless misery and suffering. In face of such unimaginable evil - people carried on - and fought - and lost their lives. But many, by some miracle, survived to tell their stories.
And I, sitting at the dinner table on any given Sunday, hearing, but not listening, to Dad go on and on - I never let it in - until now. I would hope that somehow my father understands and forgives me.
And I, sitting at the dinner table on any given Sunday, hearing, but not listening, to Dad go on and on - I never let it in - until now. I would hope that somehow my father understands and forgives me.
