To my son, Art.
I do not like to talk about the war. Of course, who likes to talk about war? I’ll tell you who: the ones who weren’t there.
The truth is, Art, that there are no winners in wars. We won, you know? That is what the books say. And yet, I have seen death. If you were to ask me, I would say that there is no winner in death. But then again, no one asked me.
I wrote a while ago that I hope you would take interest in my life, Art; that you might want to see what loss looks like from the winning side. I will tell you, it still hurts.
I had always thought that I would die during the war. They told me what the gas smelled like, but it was only rumors. We all know that no one could have known what it smelled like, because they were in the ground. And I heard about the trains, and the labor camps. I knew that one day, we would be caught. I always knew. But, somehow, I seemed to evade fate. And that, Art, is something that I have learned one must never do.
Liberation cost us a lot of bullets. Too many. And what did we win? Our lives? Every night I cry. Is that any life to live? And I ask you if you love me. And you say, “Sure.” Sure. As if I asked for my life from God above and he only said “Sure,” like I didn’t deserve it. Tell me, my son. If I do not deserve you, your father, or anyone else, then why am I here? Even better, why are you here? To keep to yourself? We have not been given a second chance to tell each other mindless musings like “Sure!” Too many have died. Too many who loved one another will never be able to tell their sons and daughters of their love ever again.
I am writing this to you because I love you; soon I will not be here, and I need you to know that I love you.
And I am also writing this because your father loves you, too, although he is not one to show it. He has had just as much trouble as I have had during the war, you know. Life, after all, makes troubles inevitable, and I suppose a second lease on it makes them all the more likely. As for his mentality, it would seem that he is doing well. Cheap, of course, but doing well. Some say his growing frugality was an effect of the war, but I am under the belief that one can never be sure. It is so easy to generalize any sort of victim, let alone a man who survived the Holocaust, when generalizations are not warranted. His reluctance to buy much of anything could be a product of Hitler, a product of aging, or a product of who he is. Maybe it is the historians who insist that we are affected by the terrors of the world. Maybe it is our neighbors. Maybe it is us; regardless, we have a natural tendency to blame our own problems on recovering from tragedy. The funny thing about tragedy, Art, is that it is utterly inevitable. If we are to blame our shortcomings, our bad health and habits, on the tragedies and death that surround us, then we have lost a war worse than any other: a war with life.
A violent and tumultuous war has taken place in my mind ever since the war ended. I lost my child. I lost my parents. I lost much of what I had, and much of what I was to have. I tried to find ways to clear my soul, overcome by gloom. I tried by finding love in my life, by loving as much as I could. And yet, I felt like a nuisance. I still do. Without being fulfilled, to this day, I still do not know why I am here. Why did I live, if I have nothing to live for? If I have no greater purpose, why did I have to suffer, to hear of my son’s death? Why do I have to wake every day, wondering if it was all a dream, wondering by some impossible glint of faith that he might be in the next room? If fate has told me that my time is not yet over, why have I found myself so alone? Where have we gone? A place where we do not tell one another that we love each other? A place where “Sure,” is a proper confirmation that my life has worth?
Art, I may not be much for this world, and I may not be long for it, either. But, I do have one dying wish for you. Tell me, my son, ask a historian, if you must: what have I won? My people have won the war. Hitler is dead; but is he, really? I have won a life that is not worth living; a prize not worth bearing. Ask the ones who speak of war so often, the ones who sit in their offices and speculate as to how I felt when I watched my mother and father leave me for the last time. Ask yourself, as you face away from me and tell me words like “Sure,” when I tell you that I love you: what have I won? Have I won your respect? Have I won theirs? My mother’s? Richieu’s? What respect is due for a woman who escaped? Ask the ones who write the textbooks if they love the ones close to them. If their families told them of their love, how would they respond? For if they would respond with anything but gratitude, they have forgotten why the textbook was written in the first place.
I cannot go on in a world where I must see death and pain in order to find love. I refuse to live in a world where we find no purpose in ourselves. I have looked. I have hurt enough, Art. It seems that the past has gashed a wound in me that has never stopped bleeding, and I am nearly bled out. My son, whatever joy there is to be found in your life, I hope that you find it. And lastly, wherever you go, know that you are my joy. I love you.
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