Holocaust legacy

Holocaust legacy is a phrase that refers to the ongoing impact and remembrance of the Holocaust. This legacy includes the stories of survivors and the lessons learned. Here are a couple of my own stories.

Convenience of Local Mall

There's a local mall near my apartment. It's very convenient, with a large grocery store, various smaller shops, an entrance to the library, and even an entrance to the subway. It's all indoors and only a 3 minute walk from my apartment.

There are 2 levels and an escalator.

Why should you care about these details? You probably also have a local mall.

Indoor malls are commonplace and often within walking distance. Or at least with a convenient parking lot.

Because, the other day, the escalator was temporarily out of service for repairs.

I inwardly frowned at the inconvenience of having to walk up one flight of stairs. "Nevermind, it's good exercise, just take your time," my alter ego told me, and I grudgingly inwardly nodded agreement. That pesky alter-ego is always looking at the bright side.

Child-of-Holocaust Voice 

But now there's a 3rd voice, my child-of-the-holocaust voice. Gently admonishing. Sometimes not so gently. I remember something my  mother repeatedly said. "My pillow was my rifle". How dare I complain about anything? I remember her long hard winters in the forests of Belarus. No, I don't want to remember. I focus my mind back to my shopping list.

One Hair in the Oven

One loose hair fell into my kitchen oven. It caused such a terrible smell. Only one loose hair. What a terrible smell it must have been in the concentration camps!

And then I think to myself - this is my legacy. Other women in their kitchens don't think of Auschwich just because there's a loose hair in their oven. They wrinkle their nose, and then they forget about it.

Forget About It?

I never tell anyone about my dark thoughts. How could they possibly relate? How could they possibly understand. How could they help? There is nothing to be said.

             Masks

A print by Robert Owen hangs in my hallway. It's a picture of a clown, waving a magic wand which creates other clown masks, all around him. The masks are all smiling, or grimacing in a fake smile. That's me. I'm always wearing a mask. Which particular mask doesn't matter. And even the main clown himself, the one with the wand, has a painted face. Only another child of the holocaust could understand. There aren't very many of us left.