'When I come in Europe with my family and watched my child going to school I realized that I never had my own childhood. I haven't been to school, I haven't play with other children, I have not toys and did not know to play at all'. My friend, a child survivor, dared to tell me about her life and memories. She haven't talk about this with her own son and avoids to repeat this story in public.
My mother haven't lived long enough to reach that moment in life when you want to get the memories out of yourself and share it with the others. When the stories are too far away to hurt. But we never understood why she never played with us, why she never had toys and childhood friends. We not even misunderstand her, but we accused her of being cold and not a good mother and not loving us enough. Disappointing us, even in her afterlife.
My big S. said today: 'I was so lucky to be born not too late for getting to know Shoah survivors'. This, coming from a teenager who is still trying to find out herself, first by completely breaking up with her traditions and family customs, tells something about the emergency of sharing over and over again the stories.
Suffering is incomprehensible and so are the ways of life during terrible times. For my children and the memory of my mother and many other like her whose pain was too big to share it, we need to bear witness. We, the children with toys and school and childhood.
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